Music — Poetry — Fiction 



walked slowly on, past the now abandoned paper-mills and the 1886 

 other human impertinences, the elemental turmoil increased, and Warner 

 they seemed entering a world the foundations of which were 

 broken up. This must have been a good deal a matter of impres- 

 sion, for other parties of sight-seers were coming and going, 

 apparently unawed, and intent simply on visiting every point 

 spoken of in the guide-book, and probably unconscious of the 

 all-pervading terror. But King could not escape it, even in the 

 throng descending and ascending the stairway to Luna Island. 

 Standing upon the platform at the top, he realized for the first 

 time the immense might of the downpour of the American Fall, 

 and noted the pale green color, with here and there a violet 

 tone, and the white cloud mass spurting out from the solid color. 

 On the foam-crested river lay a rainbow forming nearly a com- 

 plete circle. The little steamer Maid of the Mist was coming 

 up, riding the waves, dashed here and there by conflicting cur- 

 rents, but resolutely streaming on — such is the audacity of man 

 — and poking her venturesome nose into the boiling foam under 

 the Horseshoe. On the deck are pigmy passengers in oil-skin 

 suits, clumsy figures, like arctic explorers. The boat tosses about 

 like a chip, it hesitates and quivers, and then, slowly swinging, 

 darts away down the current, fleeing from the wrath of the 

 waters, and pursued by the angry roar. 



Surely it is an island of magic, unsubstantial, liable to go 

 adrift and plunge into the canon. Even in the forest path, where 

 the great tree trunks assure one of stability and long immunity, 

 this feeling cannot be shaken off. Our party descended the 

 winding staircase in the tower, and walked on the shelf under 

 the mighty ledge to the entrance of the Cave of the Winds. The 

 curtain of water covering this entrance was blown back and forth 

 by the wind, now leaving the platform dry and now deluging it. 

 A woman in the pathway was beckoning frantically and calling 

 to a man who stood on the platform, entirely unconscious of 

 danger, looking up to the green curtain and down into the boiling 

 mist. It was Mrs. Stubbs ; but she was shouting against Niagara, 



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