This gray masonry was covered with
bright blue campanula, dainty fronded ferns, light green in
color; and the air, wonderfully pure and sweet in itself from
the recent rain, was filled with delicate woodland odors." Light
exhalations seemed to rise from the steaming mould and drift
toward us; and over all like the spirit of the place, rose the
bell-like tones of the wood-thrush, while the murmur of the
falls sang a mellow accompaniment. Truly, as the poet has said,
"There is ever a song somewhere," and dull indeed are the ears
that fail to hear it. Looking out over the woods filled with the
murmur of the falls, we wondered what people listened to its
voice before the white man's foot was planted among this vast
solitude. Here the war songs of the Oneidas had arisen or smoke
from their camp fires curled among the tree tops.
The larger falls are seen to best advantage from a rocky ledge,
where you can watch the waters calmly bending over the
precipice. You at once notice that the stream is lined with
glacier polished rocks, and that somber evergreens cling
tenaciously to the bank or ledges above the river, wherever they
can gain a foothold. "How hardy they are, like the virile tribes
of the North, healthy and flourishing in an environment where
less vigorous species would perish."
At the opposite side from us there had been a landslide and many
evergreens had met their death, yet a few now clung to the small
portion of rocky earth they still had, like determined Belgians
to hold fast their rightful heritage. Out among this scene of
partial desolation a great hawk circled and added his eerie cry
to the lonely place, announcing that we were not the only
watchers in this wild domain. A great blue heron rose slowly
into the air and flew across the stream, breaking the silence
with his harsh squawk. "Here," we said, "is a quiet nook away
from the rest of the world. No need of a monastery here where
reigns such perfect seclusion and the charm of its natural
scenery makes it a place in which to dream."
Slowly you walk along the embankment opposite the falls, now
gazing at the amber sheet of water nearest you, now listening
for the voices of the other falls, again stooping to note the
beauty of the delicate harebells along the rocky ledge or
pausing reverently to listen to the songs of the birds coming to
you pure, sweet and peaceful above the song of the falls,
speaking the soul of the delightful place.
A thin, silvery mist from the spray of the falls floats here and
there, spreading out in broad sheets over the damp earth, and
gathering into filmy ropes and patches as the breeze catches it
among the spruce, pine and maple trees above the edge of the
falls. 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. Here one is
not bored with the "ohs" and "ahs" of gasping tourists, who
scream their delights in tones that drown the voice of the
falls. You can at least grow intimate with them, and their
beauty although not awesome, grows upon you like a river into
the life of childhood. It is a very graceful stream with wilder
surroundings than Niagara.
One fears his visit to Niagara will spoil his journey to
Trenton, and finds himself repeating these significant lines of
Shakespeare:
"When the moon shone, we did not see the candle;
So doth the greater glory dim the less."
But, Shakespeare never saw Trenton falls, or he never would have
written those lines. What could be more beautiful than its
lovely cascades flashing in the sun or hidden away among the
shadows among the pine and maple?
A little red squirrel barked and chattered among the pine boughs
as if reprimanding us for eating so many of the luscious
blackberries that grew near the falls. Seeing that his attempts
to make us move were of no avail, he scampered down the tree,
coming quite near us and giving vent to his outraged feelings,
punctuating each remark with a sudden jerk of his bushy red
tail, scolding and gesticulating like an Irish cop.
