An Up-River Ramble. 137 



we may recall the past if we have even the slen- 

 derest thread holding us thereto ! This little rivu- 

 let, that one might pass over without seeing, sang 

 no less the wondrous story of the past because it 

 lisped in childish treble, and every utterance was 

 lost if a bird sang or the wind murmured through 

 the hemlocks. It was almost pathetic to see the 

 waters gather their puny strength where the flat 

 rocks abruptly ended and plunge into the deep 

 gorge below. Plunging as if to move the mighty 

 rocks that barred their way, but only to be lost 

 among the broken masses that strewed the dark, 

 tortuous channel of the mountain-brook. No 

 charm was missing because the spot was now so 

 calm. It was a time fitted to contemplate what 

 had been rather than follow the rush of tumultu- 

 ous activity. I was thankful, for one, that there 

 was no roar of sullen waters to awe, no giddy 

 abyss from which to shrink in fear. Better, by 

 far, the bell-like ripple, cheery as a bird's song, 

 that so gently hinted of the tragic long-ago. 



The feast over, we were conducted to the 

 "Ringing Stones," and here grandeur of a 

 wholly different type confronted us. It is hard 

 12* 



