88 B Y- WA YS A N'D BIRD- NO TES. 



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 me a 

 ghostly, diaphanous 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 canon ; 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 



