An Evening on Lake Waterford. 



Here we are once again in the dear old woods; among the 

 birds, trees, and flowers ; away from the prison-like brick walls 

 of the city with its care-worn throng, dusty, sun-baked streets, 

 and rumbling wheels of business. 



Our tents are pitched on a grassy slope on the west shore 

 of Lake Waterford ; a beautiful little silver thread of cool 

 spring water, rippling over the white sand and pebbles, softly 

 sings its lullaby at our tent door, and winding through the 

 green sward, loses itself in the lake beyond. 



Tall forest trees are all around us, and stretching away 

 back of our tent rises a grand old hill, its rounded green top 

 standing out in bold relief against the evening sky, behind 

 which the descending sun is just disappearing as it bids the 

 world good-night. 



The glad voices of the birds are ringing through the woods 

 as they join in their evening songs. A chipmunk runs clown 

 to the rivulet for his evening drink ; after quenching his thirst, 

 saucily flirts his tail at me as he runs up the slanting cotton- 

 wood log to his home in the top. 



Lazily rolling on my back in the hammock, I look up 

 through the spreading branches of the old beech and watch 

 the sun-tinted, fleecy clouds, drifting across the evening sky. 



But the shadows of evening are gathering; the last golden 

 tinge of the setting sun is fading from the sky. The cool 

 breath of evening is stealing up from the lake ; the birds have 

 hushed their songs, and all is quiet ; 'tis the twilight hour, the 

 most lovely of all 



"Oh, twilight hour, spirit that does render birth 

 To dim enchantments melting heaven to earth 

 Leaving on hills, lakes and running streams 

 A softness like the atmosphere of dreams." 



But hark ! the voices of night are taking the place of song- 

 birds. The whippoorwill pipes his evening notes from the 



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