A short distance ahead the water glitters again where the
river makes a slight turn and plunges over another precipice. It
is like the flashing of distant shields. Overhead drift massed
white clouds that enfold the valley as far as the eye can see,
causing shadows to chase each other swiftly across the vast
expanse of green uplands. The alternate gleams of sunshine and
shadow seem like the various moods chasing across your memory.
But the amber colored etching of Trenton remains visible through
it all. Reluctantly you turn away to view the monstrous flume
along your path. Then you wander out in the forest of beech and
maple, whose solitude heightens your impressions of this wild
place.
You return again for another view, for the song of water is the
same the world over, and you seem drawn irresistibly toward the
sound as though sirens were singing. Now you try to gain a
lasting impression of the first falls.
True, the voice of Trenton would hardly make an echo of Niagara,
but are not the echoes the most glorious of all sounds? The same
forces that carved the mighty Niagara made Trenton falls, too,
and it should not be ignored just because it is small. Having
seen the Madonnas by Raphael, shall we now ignore the works of
Powers? Or having seen the Rose of Sharon, shall we cease to
admire the humbler flowers of spring? The wood thrush's song
today is divine, yet, the simpler ditty of the wren has a
sweetness not found in the larger minstrel's song.
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