' 68 WAKE-ROBIN 
But the declining sun and the deepening shadows 
admonish me that this ramble must be brought to 
a close, even though only the leading characters in 
this chorus of forty songsters have been described, 
and only a small portion of the venerable old woods 
explored. In a secluded swampy corner of the old 
Barkpeeling, where I find the great purple orchis in 
bloom, and where the foot of man or beast seems 
never to have trod, I linger long, contemplating the 
wonderful display of lichens and mosses that over- 
run both the smaller and the larger growths. Every 
bush and branch and sprig is dressed up in the most 
rich and 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 under such premature 
honors. A decayed hemlock is draped as if by 
hands for some solemn festival. 
/ Mounting toward the upland again, I pause rey- 
erently as the hush and stillness of twilight come 
upon the woods. It is the sweetest, ripest hour of 
fhe day. And as the hermit’s evening hymn goes 
up from the deep solitude below me, I experience 
that serene exaltation of sentiment of which music, 
literature, and religion are but the faint types and 
symbols. , 
1865. 
