68 WAKE-ROBIN 



But the declining sun and the deepening shadows 

 admonish me that this ramble must be brought to 

 a close, even though only the leading characters in 

 this chorus of forty songsters have been described, 

 and only a small portion of the venerable old woods 

 explored. In a secluded swampy corner of the old 

 Barkpeeling, where I find the great purple orchis in 

 bloom, and where the foot of man or beast seems 

 never to have trod, I linger long, contemplating the 

 wonderful display of lichens and mosses that over- 

 run both the smaller and the larger gro^\i;hs. Every 

 bush and branch and sprig is dressed up in the most 

 rich and fantastic of liveries; and, crowning all, 

 the long bearded moss festoons the branches or 

 sways gracefully from the limbs. Every twig looks 

 a century old, though green leaves tip the end of it. 

 A young yellow birch has a venerable, patriarchal 

 look, and seems ill at ease under such premature 

 honors. A decayed hemlock is draped as if by 

 hands for some solemn festival. 



Mounting toward the upland again, I pause rev- 

 erently as the hush and stillness of twilight come 

 upon the woods. It is the sweetest, ripest hour of 

 the day. And as the hermit's evening hymn goes 

 up from the deep solitude below me, I experience 

 that serene exaltation of sentiment of which music, 

 literature, and religion are but the faint types and 

 symbols. 



1865. 



