"Oh, yes," he said. "I have been there often, and always found
in it a certain charm not found in Niagara." Thanking him for
mapping out the road we were to take, we went to our rooms to
dream of the pleasures that awaited us on the morrow.
Several times during the night we were awakened by loud peals of
thunder, whose terrific explosions sounded at close intervals.
The sharp flashes of lightning leaped and darted their fiery
tongues across the sky, giving us a fine display of electric
signs upon the ebon curtains of the flying clouds.
Dawn came at last with a gray and murky sky, and an atmosphere
filled with mist in which there seemed no promise of relenting;
yet neither the leaden sky, nor the mist-drenched air dampened
our spirits in the least, and we started on our morning journey
with the lines of Riley ringing in our memory:
"There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
There is ever a song somewhere,
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray."
Whether the thrush sang or not, it mattered little to us, for
somewhere, falling from gray rocks, hidden away among deep
shadows of pine and maple, its voice hushed to a soothing murmur
as of wind among the pines, Trenton falls was singing its age-
old songs. Then, too, we felt the wordless melody of our own
joyous hearts filled with morning's enthusiasm.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228