Let us
go back to the falls where a voice at once grand and awesome
speaks of a day so old we have no record, save the geological
hieroglyphics; those vast manuscripts written on the tables of
rocks by the hand of Time.
On going to Niagara for the first time, one fears that his
impression will not be great, for has he not heard from
childhood, that name reiterated a thousand times until it has
lost much of its glamour? Then, too, has he not seen pictures of
Niagara in his geography and heard his older brothers tell about
it until its grandeur seems, from what he had at first pictured
in fancy, to lose much of its significance? "But like sunsets,
mountains, lakes and some people he may know, who are still
strikingly beautiful though common, he will find a significance
in the real Niagara like these."
You will perhaps be advised not to follow the beaten trail and
rush to Prospect Point, but save the best portion of the trip
for the last. Through the park to Goat Island bridge you go in
eager anticipation to learn whether your fancy had pictured with
accurateness the real scene. From this massive stone structure
you gaze up the river and behold the so-called American rapids.
Here the view awes one into silence. Even the "Isn't it lovely?"
and "oh, how wonderful!" types of people can scarcely say more
than "Niagara!" Strange, too, it is that one seldom hears the
word "scrumptious." Perhaps the people have chosen the adjective
we heard a German use, who on being asked how he enjoyed the
view from the bridge replied, "Bully."
America should be justly proud that one of her great natural
wonders has views like this. You gaze enraptured at the
swishing, swirling, lapping mass of water above you, that falls
from a series of terrace-like cascades. As it draws nearer, you
are impressed by the glorious display of the wild, raging waters
around you. How slowly you walk across the bridge, still noting
the turbulent mass of water rushing past with amazing velocity
and grand display of power.
Directly in front of the bridge you will see a vast flat rock
over whose polished surface the water comes tumbling in a great
fan-shaped mass, which is as grand as anything at Niagara. The
waters loom up at this point like some majestic living creature
who is marshaling his forces for the final plunge after they
have been scourged and seem impatient and glad to escape. To
gaze down at this place, one seems to be near some "vast and
awful Presence." The writhing, seething waters seem always
advancing, yet never arrive; hurrying to escape but never are
gone; halting against stones still ever are moving; seeming
changeless across the flood of years.
Your companions who have contracted that strange disease, not
"Hookworm," but "Americanitis," tell you it is exceedingly
beautiful here, but you must hurry on as your time is limited.
One wonders if a certain time was set for the sculpturing of
Niagara. Slowly you move on, turning away reluctantly from a
scene so fair; pausing again to look at the beautiful elms and
willows that grow so near the edge of the stream, their drooping
branches almost touching the wild swirling waters, as if trying
to get a fleeting glimpse of their own beauty.
On one of the small islands you catch a glint of metallic blue
and you see a kingfisher alight on the limb of a dead pine tree
that hangs over the water. He is gazing so intently at the swift
rushing waters below him that you almost fancy he is attracted
by the view. Suddenly he darts from his perch and, holds himself
poised in mid-air until he sights a fish. He drops like a
plummet and disappears. He quickly reappears and flies to a near-
by rock with a fish, where he beats it to pieces and devours it.
You forget about going so slowly until some one admonishes you
that the rest of your party are treading the various paths of
Goat Island. You hurry now and are soon among your friends.
What a beauty spot is this group of islands and islets! It is
only half a mile long and contains but seventy acres. But where
in all this universe does one's fancy take such long aerial
flights or the mind become conscious of such grandeur and power?
You seem to wander in fairyland where the wild throng of many
voiced waters are telling aloud, "Nature's industry to create
beauty and usefulness." Lower and sweeter the voices, too, are
rising like musical incense to the Creator, pouring out their
passionate songs which tell of joy and enthusiasm in silvery
cataracts of melody, pitched in a higher key, yet not unlike
Niagara. You hear the cardinal's rich flute-like song of "What,
what cheer!" ringing from a wild grapevine. Again he seems to
say "Come, come here!" Whether it be an invitation to all
mankind or just a message to his coy mate you know he learned it
from the same teacher as Niagara, and their voices are alike
full of rarest melody. The leisurely golden chant of the wood
thrush, where the misty spray and cool shadows enfold you, seems
like a spirit voice speaking audibly to you, and the song-
sparrow sends his sweet wavering tribute to tell you he, too,
enjoys the shady nooks of Niagara.
Here if we could only interpret aright are still small voices
speaking of divine love and infinite beauty, just as audibly as
the more powerful voice of Niagara.
At the edge of Goat Island are numerous rocks where you may get
a remarkable view of the rapids; "and the forest invites the
lover of trees to linger long amid its dim-lighted aisles, where
he will find for his vivid imagination an ideal place for
reverie."
On inquiring why Goat Island is thus named you will perhaps be
told that it was once owned by a man who pastured several
animals on it; among them a goat, which perished during a severe
winter.
