Below Us Was A Chasm Worn By The Little Miami, Ninety Feet
In Depth.
The ground on each side of the stream was a very
garden of wild bloom.
The sumac made a low border of glowing
color; back of this flaming mass grew dogwood and Judas trees;
while walnut, maple and linden, overrun with wild grape and
woodbine, made mounds of bright green foliage, from which the
ringing notes of the cardinal came to us above the song of the
water.
Every rock and ledge was cushioned with moss and ferns,
intermingled with long green ropes of woodbine, Here were vast
hanging gardens of many gradations of green, softened by gleams
of pale light from the afternoon sun. The rays falling among
these fern beds made rare masses of delicate mosaics, giving
them that indescribable charm which the level beams produced.
Perhaps thirty feet below us we saw a phoebe perched on a dead
twig that grew from a cleft in the rock. His notes sounded full
and clear, telling the joy of his admirable home. The path of
the stream betrayed itself by a long line of moss and waving
fern. The sweet breath of the summer woods floated around us. We
gazed under a canopy of trees and saw a blossoming jungle of
shrubs and flowers that seemed to have been awakened by some
more potent force than that of the sun.
Near the gorge lies the quaint old town of Clifton. The gray old
buildings never knew the use of paint.
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