138 SCRAPING ACQUAINTANCE. 



even now I have a feeling that the peculiar en- 

 joyment which the song of the black-throated 

 green warbler never fails to afford me may per- 

 haps be due in some measure to its association 

 with that twilight hour. 



To this same hemlock grove I was in the 

 habit, in those days, of going now and then 

 to listen to the evening hymn of the veery, or 

 Wilson thrush. Here, if nowhere else, might 

 be heard music fit to be called sacred. Nor did 

 it seem a disadvantage, but rather the contrary, 

 when, as sometimes happened, I was compelled 

 to take my seat in the edge of the wood, and 

 wait quietly, in the gathering darkness, for 

 vespers to begin. The veery 's mood is not so 

 lofty as the hermit's, nor is his music to be com- 

 pared for brilliancy and fullness with that of the 

 wood thrush ; but, more than any other bird- 

 song known to me, the veery's has, if I may 

 say so, the accent of sanctity. Nothing is here 

 of self-consciousness ; nothing of earthly pride 

 or passion. If we chance to overhear it and 

 laud the singer, that is our affair. Simple- 

 hearted worshiper that he is, he has never 

 dreamed of winning praise for himself by the 

 excellent manner in which he praises his Crea- 

 tor, — an absence of thrift, which is very be- 

 coming in thrushes, though, I suppose, it is 

 hardly to be looked for in human choirs. 



