OUR FOREST CHORISTERS. 183 



[n 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, con- 

 templating the wonderful display of lichens and mosses that 

 overrun 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. 



13. Mounting toward the upland again, I pause rever- 

 ently as the hush and stillness of twilight come upon the 

 woods. It is the sweetest, ripest hour of the 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. Mm Burrougl ^ 



BIRD LIFE AND MOTION. 



1. When one thinks of a bird, one fancies a soft, swift, 

 aimless, joyous thing, full of nervous energy and arrowy 

 motions, a song with wings. So remote from ours their 

 mode of existence, they seem accidental exiles from an un- 

 known globe, banished where none can understand their 

 language ; and men only stare at their darting, inexpli- 

 cable ways, as at the gyrations of the circus. Watch their 

 little traits for hours, and it only tantalizes curiosity. 

 Every man's secret is penetrable, if his neighbor be sharp- 

 sighted. But this bird that hovers and alights beside me, 



