n her sprightliness was somewhat subdued. It was a day of big,
broken, high-sailing clouds, with a deep blue sky and strong sunlight.
The slight bridge to Goat Island appeared more presumptuous by daylight,
and the sharp slope of the rapids above it gave a new sense of the
impetuosity of the torrent. As they walked slowly on, past the now
abandoned paper-mills and the other human impertinences, the elemental
turmoil increased, and they seemed entering a world the foundations
of which were broken up. This must have been a good deal a matter of
impression, for other parties of sightseers 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 complete
circle. The little steamer Maid of the Mist was coming up, riding the
waves, dashed here and there by conflicting currents, but resolutely
steaming 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 Nia