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first in all that makes for majestic and perfect beauty.

It is not alone the wondrous sweep and curve of tumbling brown water
that descends by three horseshoe ledges to a swirl of sparkling spray.
It is not alone the great volume of the dark river above sent over,
thrust down, nor the height from which the olive is hurled to the white
below. So, too, plunge and sweep other falls--the Grand Loup in
Terrebonne, the Petit Loup in Joliette, the Pleureuse, the Grand
Lorette, the Tuque, the big and little Shawenigan, the half-dozen or so
"Chaudiere," the Montmorenci or La Vache, but none of these can equal
the St. Ignace in point of dignified, unspoilt approach and picturesque
surroundings. For a mile above the cataract the river runs, an inky
ribbon, between banks of amazing solitariness; no clearing is there, no
sign of human habitation, hardly any vestige of animal life. The trees
stand thick along the edges, are thick towards the high rocky
table-land that lies on either side; it is, in short, a river flowing
through a forest. And when it drops, it drops to meet the same
impassable wooded banks; it is now a cataract in a forest. Rocks are
turbulently heaped upon one hand; upon the other, the three great
ledges meet the shock of the descending waters and define the leap by
boldly curved thick masses of olive, topaz, and greenish jelly. Where
it is brown, it is nearest the rocky bed; where olive, more water is
going over; and where green, it is so solid that twice a yard measure
alone will penetrate the reach of rock beneath. The white of its
flowing spray is whiter than the summer cloud, and the dark green of
the pines framing it, shows often black against the summer blue. Its
voice--roar as of wind or steady thunder--calling always--has silenced
other voices. Birds do not build, nor squirrels climb too near that
deep reverberating note, although the blue heron, fearless, frequently
stands in summer on the spray-washed rock and seems to listen. Below
the filmy smoke of rainbowed arches there is quiet black water, with
circles, oily, ominous, moving stealthily along, and below these--a
quarter of a mile down--the rapids, swift, impetuous, flashing,
ushering in the latter half of the St. Ignace, here at last the river
of life and motion, bearing stout booms of great chained logs, with
grassy clearings and little settlements at each side, curving into
lilied bays, or breaking musically upon yellow beaches, a Riv