Nature plans
not for one season, but for all time. The years as they came to
the painted Iroquois will come with never-ending delight to
generations yet to be. Our faith in Nature's grandeur and beauty
becomes stronger as each succeeding year slips away; the
kingfisher shall still watch from his perch on some pine bough
the finny inhabitants below him; the chimney swifts will still
fly through the spray of the falls for their bath; the flowers,
if not on Goat Island, will be just as fair as those that
blossomed long ago in their pristine loveliness; the stars when
day is done will gleam in the velvet sky as brightly as those of
far Judea. But what about Niagara? It may pass away, but not a
drop of its waters will be lost. The same powers that carved
Niagara are still at work creating new and more wondrous beauty
as the seasons pass.
One is here reminded that our sojourn is not much more a than
the wild water lapping against the rocks or the waves that beat
against the rocky ledges and are gone. Yet will they never
reappear? Even while we linger here the spray forms cloud fleets
to float across the azure sky of June; drifting like white-
sailed ships far out to sea. The resurrection of Niagara Waters!
MY HOME
"This is the place which I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
Hid among grasses and vines and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen -
Sifts and quivers and flits and falls,
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June the west wind free
The breath of the clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of the newmown hay.
The morning-glories and scarlet vine,
Over the doorway twist and twine
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn in my snow-white bed,
By a singing-bird on the roof o'erhead.
Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home -
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother's face, like a painting rare.
Far from the city's dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay
Week after week here, hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best
The little brown house like a ground-bird's nest.
- Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
THE END.
ITINERARY
We have included this itinerary so that others who are
contemplating a trip over the Old National Road to the East may
in some measure find it helpful in planning a journey.
