warriors of her own tribe, who told of 

 an ambush, of a poisoned arrow and of 

 a dead lover. 



The heart-broken maid then drifted 

 out into midstream and with her canoe 

 passed over the falls and was killed on 

 the rocks below. Tradition goes on to 

 relate how, at midnight of every harvest 

 moon since that tragic event, the ghost 

 of the beautiful Indian maiden appears 

 in her birch bark canoe and sails over 

 Buttermilk Falls, disappearing in the 

 foaming waters at their foot. 



For many years I have tried to per- 

 suade Bige to join me in keeping the 

 date with this ghost, but up to the pre- 

 sent writing it has never been conven- 

 ient. 



Sitting, one day, at the foot of the 

 falls, I was studying the high-water 

 marks on the adjacent rocks, indicating 

 the immense volume of waters that pass 

 over the falls and down the rapids dur- 



46 



