CHRISTMAS AT SABBA DAY FALLS. 279 
and then, turning slightly towards the north, 
hurries on from basin to rapid on its way to the 
intervale. Standing on a shelf of snow-covered 
rock overhanging the angle in the fall, we first 
looked up at the water leaving its level above 
and hurrying towards its leap, and then down 
at the boiling pool below and the dashing water 
in the flume. These falls must be beautiful in 
summer, with sunlight playing in the leaves, 
blue sky lending color to the water, and rainbow 
tints gleaming in the uprising spray. They 
were also beautiful to-day, — Christmas Day, — 
when the loneliness of winter was brooding over 
the mountains, when ice and snow mingled in 
the surroundings of the falls, and when the gay 
coloring of the summer forest was replaced by 
the sombre tones of leafless trees. In summer 
some trace of man might have jarred upon the 
perfect solitude of the spot and made it seem 
less pure. As it was, standing in the untrodden 
snow, surrounded by the fog, the wild stream, 
the ice-sheathed rocks, I felt as one might if 
suffered to land for a while upon some far 
planet, strange to man, and consecrated to 
eternal cold and solitude. 
We turned away reluctantly and entered the 
old forest which stands between Sabba Day 
Brook and Swift River, a quarter of a mile to 
the north. The rumble of the falls grew fainter 
