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. ‘“O spheral, 
spheral!” he seems to say; “O holy, holy! O clear 
away, clear away! O 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 
