IN THE HEMLOCKS. 73 



fantastic of liveries ; and, 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, patriarchal look, and seems ill at ease un- 

 der such premature honors. A decayed hemlock is 

 draped as if by hands for some solemn festival. 



Mounting toward the upland again, I pause rever- 

 ently 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 exal- 

 tation of sentiment of which music, literature, and re- 

 ligion are but the faint types and symbols. 



