through the vast perspective of these eternal hills. How quickly
we forget our seeming ills and are more in "tune with the
Infinite."

"The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration."


As the shadows crept higher along the ridges the breeze died
away. The great artist, evening, with all rare colors was
painting another masterpiece. The last rays of the sun were now
gilding the mountain peaks; long ago their bases rested in
purple shadow and the yellow light seemed to be reflected from
all their wooded heights. At our right lay Mount Tom in deep
shadow; the pines on Mount Jackson to the east cut the blue
vault of the sky with their serrated edges. The drooping birch
trees stood silent as if awaiting a benediction. The sky all
along the eastern horizon was a broad belt of old rose which
deepened to crimson, then crimson was succeeded by daffodil
yellow. Far up in the mountain above a wood thrush poured forth
his clear notes. "The last rays that lingered above the purple
peaks were slowly withdrawn into that shadowy realm called
night." Only the wind sighed again among the faint silvery
clashing of distant waterfalls. How like a prayer was that vast
sea of changing colors. The poem of creation was written
unmistakably upon the evening sky. Out here God himself is
teaching his grandest lessons, but alas! how few there are who
really hear them.

How wonderful the dawns and twilights; how vast and changeable