I watch the golden flush fade to gray, and then, the canyon slowly fills with purple shadows.

This hour of twilight is the silent and melancholy one.

Seldom is there any sound save the soft rush of the water over the stones, and that seems to die away.

For a moment, perhaps, I am Hiawatha alone in his forest home, or a more primitive savage, feeling the great, silent pulse of nature, happy in unconsciousness, like a beast of the wild.

But only for an instant do I ever catch this fleeting state.