94 FIVE DAYS ON MOUNT MANSFIELD. 
full of gray-cheeked thrushes, a close col- 
ony, strictly confined to the low trees at the 
top of the mountain. They were calling at 
jall hours, yeep, yeep, somewhat in the man- 
ner of young chickens; and after supper, as 
it grew dark, I stood on the piazza while 
they sang in full chorus. At least six of 
them were in tune at once. Wee-o, wee-o, 
tit-ti wee-o, something like this the music 
ran, with many variations; a most ethereal 
sound, at the very top of the scale, but faint 
and sweet; quite in tune also with my mood, 
for I-had just come in from gazing long at 
the sunset, with Lake Champlain like a sea 
of gold for perhaps a hundred miles, and a 
stretch of the St. Lawrence showing far 
away in the north. During the afternoon, 
too, I had been over the long crest of the 
mountain to the northern peak, the highest 
point, belittled in local phraseology as the 
Chin; a delightful jaunt of two miles, with 
magnificent prospects all the way. It was 
like walking on the ridge-pole of Vermont, 
a truly exhilarating experience. 
All in all, though the forenoon had been 
so rainy, I had lived a tong day, and now, 
if ever, could appreciate the singing of this 
