Bird Over Boy: A Queer Reading of “A White Heron”/Anton Maslowski

Why does Sylvia save the bird from the hunter? This central question must be at the heart of any thorough examination of Sarah Orne Jewett’s 1886 short story, “A White Heron.” Much can be gleaned from the story when it is viewed through the life of the author — particularly through the devoted relationship Jewett had with the other half of her “Boston marriage,” Annie Fields (Elliott and Levine 433). As expressed in the Norton Anthology of American Literature, “scholars interested in the nineteenth-century history of same-sex desire have frequently turned to Jewett’s biography and to her fiction” (Elliott and Levine 433). If we readers are not trying to consider “A White Heron” in a vacuum unto itself, we cannot ignore its author’s passionate connection with another woman. Such a rejection of fact would not only do a disservice to Jewett as a person, but to all of the modern-day queer women who could see themselves in her work. In Jewett’s “A White Heron,” Sylvia’s rejection of the hunter typifies a rejection of the heternormative expectations of nineteenth-century American society and is a subtle embrace of an unconventional yet more earnest sort of love — her love of the forest and of the heron, whatever they may represent. 

“A White Heron” goes to great lengths to firmly establish Sylvia’s life in the woods as her natural state. From the moment she is introduced, the narrator makes it clear that her home is among the trees, proclaiming, “there never was such a child for straying about out-of-doors since the world was made!” (Jewett 434). Sylvia is truly an outside child; it is part of her very nature, the meaning of her name. Her connection to the forest is such that it is even difficult to tell her apart from the animals there. Her grandmother, Mrs. Tilley, informs the hunter and the reader that “‘the wild creaturs counts her one o’ themselves’” (Jewett 436). There is no separating her from her woods — it is the place where she feels most comfortable, where she learned to thrive. Sylvia “had tried to grow for eight years in a crowded manufacturing town,” and failed; in the end, “it seemed as if she never had been alive at all before she came to live at the farm” (Jewett 434). Sylvia flourishes in the country and the woods; they are her status quo, her source of bliss. 

In every conceivable way, the newly-arrived hunter represents a disruption to Sylvia’s status quo. From his own introductory whistle, Sylvia is terrified, “horror-stricken” at the sound, which is contrasted with the customary “friendliness” of a bird’s. (Jewett 435). What is the opposite of a friend if not an enemy; Sylvia, like a hunted bird, feels threatened by the presence of the boy. The hunter in himself also opposes Sylvia’s natural state through his approach to the animals of the forest. While Sylvia is considered one with the wild creatures, the young man is an “ornithologist,” a studier of birds, who does not even hunt for survival, but for scientific examination, “stuff[ing] and preserv[ing]” the birds he has slain (Jewett 437). This profession suggests him to be a hunter and examiner of Sylvia and establishes him as a sort of “civilizing” presence on her wildness. He even presents a financial incentive of ten dollars for help finding the white heron, prompting Sylvia to contemplate “how many wished-for treasures the ten dollars, so lightly spoken of, would buy” (Jewett 437). The hunter tempts Sylvia with this money, strengthening the pull of society, and all that comes with it: industrialization, patriarchy, capitalism, empire. The upset he brings to her status quo instills a new tension within her of whether to choose the boy, and doom the bird, or to save the bird, and forsake the boy. 

The hunter is the perfect representative of the nineteenth century’s heteronormative expectations for women. In her evaluation of the hunter, Sylvia finds him perfectly agreeable — except for the part where he is a hunter. She “had never seen anybody so charming and delightful,” but apparently “have liked him vastly better without his gun” (Jewett 438). Sylvia has no logical reason to object to the hunter, other than the fact that he is the antithesis of all she holds dear. Yet despite the hunter’s differences from Sylvia, Sylvia feels inclined to like him. Our narrator, our outside observer and reporter on the events of the story, claims that “the woman’s heart, asleep in the child, was vaguely thrilled by a dream of love” (Jewett 438). Now, this phrase is rich with meaning. A “dream of love” for a nine year-old girl could illustrate the heteronormative ideal inculcated inside of all children, especially in a period more that a century distant from marriage equality in the United States. And the description of Sylvia as “vaguely thrilled” smacks of feeling not quite certain, as the social standard set out for Sylvia butts against her natural sensibilities. Even when she is faced with the financial stability the hunter offers and his apparent worthiness as a companion, she cannot give in (Jewett 440). The heteronormative expectation of Sylvia joining with the hunter transforms into something unnatural, as it is a direct inversion of that which feels most natural to her. 

The titular white heron signifies the purest symbol of Sylvia’s deepest desires. We the reader first learn of the heron’s location is moment of high emotionality, when: Sylvia’s heart gave a wild beat; she knew that strange white bird, and had once stolen softly near where it stood in some bright green swamp grass, away over at the other side of the woods. There was an open place where the sunshine always seemed strangely yellow and hot, where tall, nodding rushes grew, and her grandmother had warned her that she might sink in the soft black mud underneath and never be heard of more (Jewett 437).

The lush imagery of this passage further makes real Sylvia’s unabiding love for nature, and the reverence she holds for the white heron in particular. However, the end of this passage illuminates for the reader just what a dangerous place Sylvia’s forest is. Upon reflection, the swift shift in tone highlights the bravery of the little woods-girl for perilously pursuing what she wants. In her search for the white heron’s nest, we see just how welcome Sylvia is in the forest, as the old pine is said to support Sylvia on her journey upward, to “love his new dependent,” and to work to support her endeavor (Jewett 439). Never is Sylvia portrayed as more of a piece with the forest than in this moment. The scene comes to a crescendo as she sees two hawks and “[feels] as if she too could go flying away among the clouds”; the white heron itself later comes and “they [watch] the sea and the morning together” (Jewett 439, 440). Sylvia identifies with these birds, understands them, and loves them with all her heart. It should then be no surprise that she refuses to give up even one of their lives for the hunter’s pleasure. 

Sylvie’s choice to keep the location of the heron’s nest a secret is born of her love for the forest and its inhabitants; therefore, choosing the bird over the boy is a tacit rejection of all he represents. That her own connection with nature prevents her from confessing is no subtle mystery; Sylvia recalls her morning at the top of the pine tree as she realizes that she “cannot speak” (Jewett 440). Her affinity for the natural world, which has been so thoroughly established throughout the story, is what inevitably determines her decision. She loves her forest too much to betray it. While, if the narrator is to be believed, Sylvia is not always content with her choice, she certainly made it for a noble reason (Jewett 440-441). It is realistic to regret not having bowed to your society’s expectations for you, and to feel guilt for having followed your own path that was truer to who you are, to feel as if you have lost certain “treasures” (Jewett 441). But when one takes the entire short story as a whole, Sylvia undoubtedly makes the choice most in line with her nature, which, rather unlike the entrenched opinion of her heteronormative culture, is an aversion to all the hunter stood for. While her society may bemoan her loss, Sylvia chooses liberation in her truth over the confinement of conformity. 

The preceding reading of Jewett’s “A White Heron” is significant to queer literary history. Observing the manners in which a historically queer authors could, through symbols and theming, indirectly subvert the restrictive and prescriptive mandates of their society, will always be meaningful when it comes to appreciating the hidden, obscured, and outright destroyed past of queer people. When little subtleties were able to sneak through, were even able to be inducted into the literary canon, those in the present must applaud the efforts of the authors, to see them in their earnest efforts to express themselves to the world at any cost. One hopes that at least some queer women of today can see themselves in Sarah Orne Jewett and Sylvia, and maybe feel a little less alone.

Works Cited 

Elliott, Michael A., and Robert S. Levine, editors. “Sarah Orne Jewett.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature, shorter 9th ed., vol. 2, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., pp. 432-434.

Jewett, Sarah Orne. “A White Heron.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature, shorter 9th ed., vol. 2, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., pp. 434-441.

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Anton Maslowski‘s critical essay took 1st place in our 2022 Literary Awards. Anton is an English major who lives and breathes stories. He hails from a little-known city outside Madison, WI, by the name of Fitchburg.