150 ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



drew near and with it one of the most 

 beautiful sunsets I have ever beheld. 

 The atmosphere was as clear as crystal. 

 To the top of Lyon Mountain seemed but 

 a short walk. The lake's surface was an 

 exquisite blue, dancing with light. Every 

 hill stood out against its background, 

 either mountain or sky, sharply defined. 

 Instantaneously with the sky tingeing a 

 faint pink, the water on the western shore 

 began to turn leaden, while the little waves 

 looked like mercury running over its 

 surface. The west turned a deeper pink, 

 the eastern sky a hazy purple. Slowly 

 the dark waters crept across the lake and 

 color rose upon the foothills. The west 

 was red and the east becoming still more 

 purple. The waters were turning rose- 

 ate ; the color seemed to run about as 

 oil between the dying waves. The sun 

 had sunk, yet still the mountain's crest 

 was golden with its light. Long fingers 

 of flame reached up behind the hill across 

 the sky ; mock fingers stretched across 

 the lake. Then slowly the sun withdrew 

 its grasp upon the scene, withdrew her 

 outreached hand, turned down her golden 

 eye from off the mountain's peak ; all light 



