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. Nature was trying her
best to make them a part of the landscape. But why use
artificial means to create beauty, when Nature all around was so
prodigal? How one loves to contemplate architecture like this,
where the gray of the buildings blends with the gray of the
rocks.
With a feast of beauty spread above as well as beneath us, we
found ourselves repeating these words of an Ohio poet:
"Around me here rise up majestic trees
That centuries have nurtured: graceful elms.
Which interlock their limbs among the clouds;
Dark columned walnuts, from whose liberal store
The nut-brown Indian maids their baskets fill'd
Ere the first pilgrims knelt on Plymouth Rock;
Gigantic sycamores, whose mighty arms
Sheltered the Redman in his wigwam prone,
What time the Norsemen roamed our chartless seas;
And towering oaks, that from the subject plain
Sprang when the builders of the tumulis
First disappeared, and to the conquering hordes
Left these, the dim traditions of their race
That rise around, in many a form of earth
Tracing the plain, but shrouded in the gloom
Of dark, impenetrable shades, that fall
From the far centuries."
- Galligher.
Within hearing of the waters of the Little Miami dwelt an old
man all alone in a brown frame house. Thinking us to be pilgrims
who had lost our way, he came to give us directions to Yellow
Springs or any nearby point. He said he had lived here many
years and that his companion had died eight years before,
leaving him very lonely. His eyesight was failing, and he told
us that he had neither horses nor cows, pigs nor chickens, dogs
nor cats, to keep him company. "Mentally, physically and
financially, I don't amount to very much any more," he said. As
we looked at his bending, tottering form and noted his failing
vision, we saw that physically he was not one of Nature's
successes; while the mossy shingles thatching his humble
dwelling proclaimed that he had not much of this world's goods.
"Here," said he, "I have dwelt many years, telling strangers how
to get to Yellow Springs and others the way to go to the devil,
which is just to keep on the wrong road and keep disregarding
the sign-posts in God's Word."
Then, thought we, how necessary it is early in life to have some
objective to reach and keep on the straight road, never turning
to the right or left although siren voices call to easier and
fairer ways or gates of idleness swing open to lure the careless
wayfarer on the road of life and steal from him unawares its
golden opportunities. Thanks, dear old man, for the lesson you
have taught. May you live many more years, if only to warn the
sojourner upon the thorny road of life to set his face toward
the distant city, that is only reached by the main highway of
noble aims and self denial. May the rippling music of the Little
Miami be to you a friendly voice of comfort; may the golden
notes of the thrush and the fragrant perfume of the flowers
console you, until you hear the chanting of the angelic choir
and breathe the perfume from flowers that never fade and die!
The sun, still seen above the western hills, turned the moist
evening haze to lustrous pearl that one often sees on the ocean.
Broad stretches of gently undulating land opened before us.
Below in the subdued light shone the houses from whose chimneys
ascended pale blue wreaths of smoke. The peaceful village lit up
by the sun's level rays seemed the one bright spot in the whole
landscape, the rest having been veiled in a soft tint of
transparent gray. It was remarkably silent. Only the wood-thrush
poured forth her serene notes, seeming miles away. No sound of
lowing cattle or bleating sheep came from the pasture lands; no
shout of farmer lads doing their evening chores. Over all the
land brooded an atmosphere of rest, of calm serenity, of
perpetual peace. Sitting there in the warm twilight and gazing
out over this charming Ohio landscape was in itself "more
refreshing than slumber to tired eyes." "The restless yearning
and longing that reigns in the mind of all was quieted for a
time," and we let our fancy roam until higher ideals floated
before us and we experienced that exaltation of spirit that
comes at rare intervals in times like this.
