IN THE CATSKILLS 



though I hear it at all hours of the day. It is very 

 simple, and I can hardly tell the secret of its charm. 

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

 holy ! O clear away, clear away ! O clear up, clear 

 up!" interspersed 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 passion 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 

 mountain 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 trivial 

 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 

 take up the strain from almost the identical perch 

 in less than ten minutes afterward. Later in the 

 day, when I had penetrated the heart of the old 

 Barkpeeling, I came suddenly upon one singing 

 from a low stump, and for a wonder he did not seem 

 alarmed, but lifted up his divine voice as if his 

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