76 IN THE BOCKY MOUNTAINS. 



The delights of that perfect day cannot be 

 put into words. Strolling up the path, filled 

 with an inexpressible sense of ownership and 

 seclusion from all the world, I first paused in 

 the neighborhood of the small cliff-dweller 

 whose music had charmed me, and suggested 

 the enchanting idea of spending a day with him 

 in his retreat. I seated myself opposite the 

 forbidding wall where the bird had hovered, 

 apparently so much at home. All was silent ; 

 no singer to be heard, no wren to be seen. The 

 sun, which turned the tops of the Pillars to gold 

 as I entered, crept down inch by inch till it beat 

 upon my head and clothed the rock in a ||d 

 glory. Still no bird appeared. High above tbe 

 top of the rocks, in the clear thin air of the 

 mountain, a flock of swallows wheeled and 

 sported, uttering an unfamiliar two-note call; 

 butterflies fluttered irresolute, looking frivolous 

 enough in the presence of the eternal hills ; 

 gauzy-winged dragonflies zigzagged to and fro, 

 their intense blue gleaming in the sun. The 

 hour for visitors drew near, and my precious 

 solitude was fast slipping away. 



Slowiy then I walked up the canon, looking 

 for my singer. Humming-birds were hovering 

 before the bare rock as before a flower, perhaps 

 sipping the water-drops that here and there 

 trickled down, and large hawks, like mere specks 



