HERMIT THRUSH. 205 
As we went along, watching the red light slant 
across the trunks of the trees, we would some- 
times be thrilled with his song, but not till we 
had reached the brow of the hill overlooking the 
village in the valley, and the dark line of wooded 
hills beyond, not till — 
“The golden lighting of the sinking sun 
O’er which clouds are brightening ’’? — 
had all melted away, the sun dropped behind the 
dark hills, and the rosy cloudlets training across 
the sky had gradually disappeared ; not till the 
afterglow of the sunset was turning to pale serene 
light, would the song of the hermit stir us with 
its full richness and beauty. Then from the 
wooded hillside it would come to us, filling the 
cool evening air with its tremulous yearning and 
pathos, and gathering up into short waves of song 
the silent music of the sunset — nature’s benison 
of peace. 
