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Rh other birds of the deeper forests have been recorded by those veterans in bird-craft, Messrs. Barlow and Carriger, and although every day was replete with pleasant incidents, further reference to the subject would here be superfluous.

Yet, after the last day's work is done, I linger to bid good-bye to the pleasant associations and go out again into the lengthening shadows to witness the coming of the night. Seated upon a fallen cedar with a mattress of brown needles at my feet. I examine the treasures around me. To the north a broad sweep of the low-lying valley, untrammelled by civilization, rests languorous and dreamy in the purple haze, while beyond rise the gray, granite walls and battlements that mark the course of that erstwhile Klondike,—the American River. To the east the bald granite ridges sweep ever upward until the gleaming fangs of the great divide stand dear and cold against the evening sky.

On every side the silver stars of "mountain misery" look up from their beds of feathery foliage, and groups of tiny figworts, some robed in vestments of white and gold and others in imperial purple, are scattered over the soft carpet. Near them a snowy iris stands like a chaste nun guarding her worldly flock. A dead cedar thrusts its tapering spire far up into the blue ether and on its pinnacle an Olive-sided Flycatcher assumes his solitary watch, uttering now and anon his peculiar note. In adjacent thickets the warblers and vireos are completing their evening repast and their gentle gossip falls on tile evening stillness like baby prattle of bird-land. The low, happy notes of the Chickadee are heard from every side, while from the slanting branch of a spruce a grosbeak lifts up its voice in anthem so earnest and joyous that its influence is infectious.

The dawn of night is around us; swift-footed and silently she treads the lower valleys and her cool, balmy breath permeates the forest. The clamorous birds are hushed in her mysterious presence. She pauses a little in her upward flight, while the lingering sun throws a parting kiss to the eastern hills which blush, responsive, to the greeting. The silence that invokes the children of imagination is over the landscape and the "peace which passeth all understanding" seems to enfold the hills. "The groves were God's first temples" is a sentiment written on every hill and whispered in every wandering breeze. What simplicity is here, where the whole world may come unquestioned and leave its burdens in God's own sanctuary. What glorious absence of narrow creeds, of pompous caste and petty cliques and all the empty formalities of fashionable devotions! No gloved and perfumed usher with scrutinizing glance suggestive of credentials. No salaried choir to taint the holy anthems with stains of commerce, and no ten-thousand-dollar exponent of humility to throw bouquets of empty rhetoric. No ostentatious appeals to God to manifest His divine presence are necessary.

He is here if anywhere and you know it. These are His temples and His silent sermons are written on every side. More masterful than the creations of men are these majestic columns and eternal naves. More beautiful than the frescoes of St. Peter are these cloud-swept vaults and glorious vistas. The grandest symphonies of the masters are not more acceptable to the human heart than the sweet anthems of the birds borne upon the deep, solemn strains of these mighty wind-harps. No one who exercises thought can pass a twilight in the impressive solemnity of these groves without imbibing in some degree the sentiment which impelled that broad-minded teacher of humanity and humility, of mercy and charity, to go alone into the solitudes to pray.

The day is nearly spent and night moves silently, while the evening star rises white over the spectral hills. The weird call of a creeper is still heard, like the mocking taunt of some woodland sprite, and as I move to go, a faint twitter comes from out the snowy plumes of the deer-brush, so soft, so ineffably sweet, that it seems a benediction to Nature's silent services. The day is dead.

J. M. W., Copperopolis, Cal.