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owned, we could have wished for our wood 
nymph an ampler garment of water. Still there 
was enough to adorn her beauty, and we could 
readily accept the apologies of our friend, the 
original explorer, who had seen her, so to speak, 
in full flow of drapery. But it is the beauty 
of a cascade, as of a lake, that it adapts itself 
easily to any margin; nor did the beauty of this 
scene of peace require for its full appreciation 
the severe prelude of fatigue through which we 
had passed. 
The immediate question before us was that 
which the English poet Faber long since set 
to music, “Up a stream or down?” We had 
struck the cascades, it was guessed, about half 
way up their course; and they were, at any 
rate, so much nearer the top of the ravine than 
the bottom that it was a question which route 
to pursue. We could follow them up and reach 
the summit, thence descending the mountain 
by the ordinary road; or we could follow the 
stream itself down, an easier but perhaps longer 
route, especially with a guide not thoroughly 
familiar with the way. It was already half past 
four, and, being on the eastern or shadowy 
slope of Moosilauke, we could not safely count 
on more than two hours of time. Deciding, at 
last, to ascend, we pressed on in the path of the 
brook, our feet treading 
