ceaselessly undulates in the breeze, and now and 

 again floats away in mist ere it can reach the pool 

 below. Under the overhanging rock, Alpine wood- 

 sia and cliff-brake thickly cluster, while on narrow 

 shelves are hanging gardens of dicentra, and in the 

 crannies, little patches of mountain saxifrage. 



Below is a golden sheen where the spicebush 

 is in flower, and a shimmer of pale green about 

 the early willows. From the glen comes the song 

 of the ruby kinglet, bubbling up and dying away. 

 Incomparably wild, it seems to express the abandon 

 of a spirit ever free. All the while the com- 

 panionable brook gurgles and tinkles its reposeful 

 melody, and the white veil of the waterfall undu- 

 lates softly in its dark cavern. The air is full of 

 that indescribable suggestion of spring, which is 

 like hashish, and casts a glamor over the world. 

 Gradually one is imbued with a sylvan conscious- 

 ness and attains to a rapt and intimate point of 

 view. 



It is curious, as one follows down the ravine, to 

 hear the different voices. The brook seems as if 

 inhabited by a number of spirits throughout its 

 length, some whispering, some laughing, others 

 singing. Not only are the voices pitched in various 



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