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 

 all 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. TFee-o, wee-o^ 

 tit-ti wee-o, something 1 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 long day, and now, 

 if ever, could appreciate the singing of this 



