ad shrunk back and feared
to take the awful leap, then, pushed on by the rush of the waters
behind, descend like a shower of diamonds, and come whirling and
dashing through the narrow gorge at our feet. And is not that deep
basin at the base of the falls glorious? What an angry aspect its
surface puts on, plunging and surging like a mass of living snow,
while the flashing sunlight is perpetually endeavoring to paint a
rainbow in the ever-mounting spray, and yet never quite succeeds. And
those massive rocks, too, piling themselves up so quaintly on either
side of the falls, just where they take the final plunge--are they not
magnificent? How verdant and mossy, and superb in their ruggedness!
Oh! if we were only upon one of those ledges--that one that seems
ready to bow itself into the foaming torrent; if we only stood there,
by that wide-spreading, gnarled old oak, twisting its dark roots in
and out amongst the deep crevices like a knot of huge serpents, what a
glorious prospect would burst upon your sight! There are _so_ many
entrancing scenes about my birth-place, but, among them all, none as
magnificent as the one you behold from that mossy ledge. But the
bridge--did you look at the old bridge? See where it stands festooned
with shadows. That is a dear spot to me, for with it are associated
some of the most treasured recollections of my boyhood. One end of
this time-worn fabric opens into a sandy lane, with broad, green
margins on both sides next the zig-zag fences, where I have so often
gathered a bunch of flowers for my instructress, as I passed through
it on my way to the school-house; the other is embowered by a clump of
oak and beech trees, which, together with a few hemlocks and
chestnuts, out-skirt a superb grove of evergreens, in the midst of
which towers the little white cottage of Farmer Daniels. There was
always a dream-like stillness about the old bridge that pleased me;
and I have spent whole hours in peeping through the crevices of those
time-worn and trampled planks, at the dark, deep waters creeping and
dimpling beneath the massive and sodden arches with a low gurgle,
receiving a sheet of silver sheen as they stole away into the rich
sunshine; and, in gazing over the rude balustrade where the gaudy
butterflies flitted around, or rested by the river's brink, opening
and shutting their unruffled fans; or in flinging pebbles into the
placid waters, and then watching the widening circles as they swept
down