88 BY-WAVS AND BIRD-NOTES. 
Are the gods still here? The question fed 
my fancy. I began, in a half-earnest, half- 
idle way, to scrutinize every dim opening, 
every shadowy recess of the woods, as we sped 
by. I wove a cocoon of the old, silken webs 
of poesy around about me, looking through the 
sheeny film of which I hoped to assist the shy 
deities in taking on visibility. If I could only 
see one god, even though it flitted past mea 
ghostly, diaphancus mockery of its former self, 
what a joy it would be! 
The wings of our luring halcyon were now 
in almost constant motion, so swift was our 
following, and the sound of the voice of the 
waterfall was deepening and spreading. Some 
little thrills of quietly ecstatic delight began to 
trouble my senses. I have occasionally felt 
the same when sailing before a smart breeze in 
an open boat after a long absence from the 
sea. 
At some distance before us I saw a shining 
line drawn, like a wavering gossamer, across 
the surface of the river. Beyond it a silvery 
mist swayed in the gloom of giant trees that 
partially overshadowed the water. This line 
was the break where the cataract began and 
this mist was the spray from the agitated 
stream in the cafion; but to my mind the 
silvery thread was the index of something 
more, and with a leap, so to speak, my imagi- 
nation reached the threshold of the gods! The 
line marked the boundary of the haunts of the 
shining ones. Heavy and sweet the odors 
drifted upon us, and in all the trees we heard 
a satin rustle. The cardinal-birds and the 
wood-thrushes suddenly ceased their singing. 
Deeper and deeper we sank into the narrowing 
