Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and wo

men swoon.

Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon, And it is sunset now; and another boat and the last Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has safely passed.

IV.

Wild through the crowd comes flying a man that nothing can stay,

Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his

way.

"No! we keep the bridge for them that can help him.

You,

Tell us, who are you?" His brother!" "God help you both! Pass through."

Wild, with wide arms of imploring he calls aloud to

him,

Unto the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance dim;

But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are

lost

As in a wind of autumn the leaves of autumn are

tossed.

And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope; Sees all as in a dream the terrible pageantry,

Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying free; Sees, then, the form,

ing and fear,

that, spent with effort and fast

Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying

so near,

Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled and hurled

Headlong on to the cataract's brink, and out of the

world.

William Dean Howells.

GOAT ISLAND.

PEACE and perpetual quiet are around.

Upon the erect and dusky file of stems,
Sustaining yon far roof, expelling sound,
Through which the sky sparkles (a rain of gems
Lost in the forest's depth of shade), the sun
At times doth shoot an arrow of pure gold,
Flecking majestic trunks with hues of dun,
Veining their barks with silver, and betraying
Secret initials tied in true love knots;

Of hearts no longer through green alleys straying,
But stifled in the world's distasteful grots.
The silence is monastic, save in spots

Where heaves a glimmer of uncertain light,
And rich wild tones enchant the woodland night.

Thomas Gold Appleton.

I

THE CATARACT ISLE.

WANDERED through the ancient wood

That crowns the cataract isle.

I heard the roaring of the flood

And saw its wild, fierce smile.

Through tall tree-tops the sunshine flecked
The huge trunks and the ground,

And the pomp of fullest summer decked
The island all around.

And winding paths led all along
Where friends and lovers strayed,
And voices rose with laugh and song
From sheltered nooks of shade.

Through opening forest vistas whirled
The rapids' foamy flash,

As they boiled along and plunged and swirled,
And neared the last long dash.

I crept to the island's outer verge,
Where the grand, broad river fell,
Fell sheer down mid foam and surge
In a white and blinding hell.

The steady rainbow gayly shone

Above the precipice,

And the deep low tone of a thunder groan
Rolled up from the drear abyss.

And all the day sprang up the spray

Where the broad white sheets were poured,

And fell around in showery play,

Or upward curled and soared.

And all the night those sheets of white
Gleamed through the spectral mist,

When o'er the isle the broad moonlight
The wintry foam-flakes kissed.

Mirrored within my dreamy thought,

I see it, feel it all,

That island with sweet visions fraught,
That awful waterfall.

With sunflecked trees, and birds and flowers,
The Isle of Life is fair;

But one deep voice thrills through its hours,
One spectral form is there,

A power no mortal can resist,
Rolling forever on,

A floating cloud, a shadowy mist,
Eternal undertone.

And through the sunny vistas gleam

The fate, the solemn smile.

Life is Niagara's rushing stream;

Its dreams

that peaceful isle!

Christopher Pearse Cranch.

Norman's Kill (Tawasentha), N. Y.

A

THE FALLS OF NORMAN'S KILL.

DAY in Indian Summer: here, the sky

Shows a bright veil of silver; there, a shade

Of soft and misty purple, with the fleece

Of downy clouds, and azure streaks between.
The light falls meekly, and the wooing air
Fans with a brisk vitality the frame.

The woods have lost the bright and varied charm
Of magic Autumn, and the faded leaves

Hide with one robe of brown the earth that late
Glowed like the fabled gardens of the East.
Still all around is lovely. Far the eye

Pierces the naked woods, and marks the shades,
Like prone black pillars with their capitals,
Formed by the sprays; and rocks, ravines, and mounds
(Hidden when Summer smiles), and sparkling rills,
Trickling o'er mossy stones.

A low, stern tone
Rumbles upon the air, as, winding down
The gullied road, I seek the gorge where flows
The stream to mingle with the river flood
In the brief eastward distance. On my left
Are the brown waters, a high rocky isle
Like a huge platform midway; and the steep
Tree-columned ridge, in summer dense with shades,
But ragged now with gaunt and leafless boughs,
And only green where stand the kingly pines
And princely hemlocks. On my right the bank,
Of slate and crumbling gravel, pitches down
Now sheer, now hollowed out, the dark blue clay
Showing its strata veins, while on the edge,
High up and dwarfed by distance, cling tall trees.
A rocky rampart, seamed and dashed with white,
Is piled before me, and the bending sky
Close at its back. Advancing, with the sound