94 IN THE HEMLOCKS. 



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, patri- 

 archal look, and seems ill at ease under such 

 premature honors. A decayed hemlock is 

 draped as if by hands for some solemn fes- 

 tival. 



Mounting toward the upland again, I 

 pause reverently, 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 mu- 

 sic, literature, and religion are but the faint 

 types and symbols. 



