The last time Yvonne had come this way she’d heard a whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will, whip-peri-will, the plaintive lonely voice of spring at home had said, and calling one home—to where? To her father’s home in Ohio? And what should a whip-poor-will be doing so far from home itself in a dark Mexican forest? But the whip-poor-will, like love and wisdom, had no home; and perhaps, as the Consul had then added, it was better here than routing around Cayenne, where it was supposed to winter.
