EVENING IN THE CANYON.

The sun’s last beams kiss the mountain side, At which it blushes like a bride; A soft wave, from the earth’s warm breast, Stirs in the pines and sinks to rest. Far off a straying lambkin bleats, Which pitying Echo soft repeats; Anear the querulous, strident cries That tell of insect lullabies. Then long, grey shadows take command And beckon with mysterious hand Till falls a deep, expectant hush, And then—the song of a single thrush. The flowers and grasses bow the head, Like children when their prayer is said, While I with heart and soul rejoice That a perfect day hath found its voice. —M. E. Dissette.