IN THE HEMLOCKS 47 



music reach me; and through the general chorus of 

 wrens and warblers I detect this sound rising pure 

 and serene, as if a spirit from some remote height 

 were slowly chanting a divine accompaniment. This 

 song appeals to the sentiment of the beautiful in 

 me, and suggests a serene religious beatitude as no 

 other sound in nature does. It is perhaps more of 

 an evening than a morning hymn, though I hear it 

 at all hours of the day. It is very simple, and I 

 can hardly tell the secret of its charm. " spheral, 

 spheral! " he seems to say; "O holy, holy! clear 

 away, clear away! clear up, clear up!" inter- 

 spersed with the finest trills and the most delicate 

 preludes. It is not a proud, gorgeous strain, like 

 the tanager's or the grosbeak's; suggests no pas- 

 sion or emotion, nothing personal, but seems 

 to be the voice of that calm, sweet solemnity one 

 attains to in his best moments. It realizes a peace 

 and a deep, solemn joy that only the finest souls 

 may know. A few nights ago I ascended a moun- 

 tain to see the world by moonlight, and when near 

 the summit the hermit commenced his evening 

 hymn a few rods from me. Listening to this 

 strain on the lone mountain, with the full moon 

 just rounded from the horizon, the pomp of your 

 cities and the pride of your civilization seemed tri- 

 vial and cheap. 



I have seldom known two of these birds to be 

 singing at the same time in the same locality, rival- 

 ing each other, like the wood thrush or the veery. 

 Shooting one from a tree, I have observed another 



