All the way along, bobolinks, canaries, and song-sparrows had been singing to her, the swallows and red-throats had been talking; everywhere among the soft spongy mosses, the singing frog of the Canadian spring had been filling the air with its one soft whistling note.

Zilda had not heard them, but now she stopped suddenly with head bent, listening eager, enraptured.
'Hi! hi!' called the voice again.

'Is any one there ?' Zilda went down the bank halfway among the bushes and looked over.

She saw Gilby sitting at the edge of the meadow almost in the river water.
She saw at once that something was wrong.

His attitude was as natural as he could make it, such an attitude as a proud man might assume when pain is chaining him in an awkward position, but Zilda saw that he was injured.