That excited
our imagination; we fell into conjectures regarding the scenery,
vegetation, and above all, the location of this forgotten place.
"Trenton falls," we repeated to ourselves, is a poem of color
and a softly singing cataract that is embowered in the most
romantic landscape we have ever seen - we learned that from a
book of travel. "It is a mere echo of Niagara with the subtile
beauty and delicate charm, yet lacking the noisy, tumultuous
demonstrations of the greater cataract." What else? It may be
conveniently reached in a short time from Utica. The blue-book,
"beloved of tourists," did not deign to notice its existence if
it ever had one. We were not so sure but that it was only a
fanciful creation in the brain of some romantic writer. The more
we inquired concerning its location, the more we became aware
that here was a little spot of beauty for some reason forgotten,
lying within easy reach of Utica, yet unknown to the eyes of
conventional sight-seers.
After a time, we were made bold enough to venture a talk with
the tall man, who at once furnished us with the desired
information, which was as welcome to us as sight to the blind.
"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.
