It was an exquisite bit of forest with the bells of a hermit thrush ringing in one of its towers.

Their call and the low song of the river were the only sounds in the silence.

The glow of the setting sun which lighted the western windows of the forest had a color like that of the music-golden.
Long shafts of it fell through the tree columns upon the road here and there.

Our weary travelers stopped on the rude plank bridge that crossed the river.

Odors of balsam and pine and tamarack came in a light, cool breeze up the river valley.
"It smells like Bear Valley," said Sarah.
"What was that poetry you learned for the church party ?" Samson asked.
"I guess the part of it you're thinking of is: 'And west winds with musky wing Down the cedarn alleys fling 'Nard and Cassia's balmy smells.'" "That's it," said Samson.