It seemed as much a natural sound of the wood as a bird's, and was indeed one of the primitive notes of nature: the call of that most helpless human young for its parent and its shield.
Jerome pushed on, calling, until he came to the open space where his father had toiled felling trees all winter.

Cords of wood were there, all neatly piled and stacked.

The stumps between them were sending out shoots of tender green.

"Father! father!" Jerome called, but this time more cautiously, hushing his voice a little.

He thought that his father might be lying there among the stumps, injured in some way.