Down the River to the Sea

by Agnes Maule Machar

They reached the bridge leading to the lovely Sister or Cynthia Islands, nestling amid the tumult and foam as safely as in the embrace of a calmly winding river where the constant shower-bath of the spray keeps the foliage and the ferns at their greenest and freshest; and the contrast between the tranquil beauty of the woodland ways and the turmoil of the rapids beyond greatly heightened the charm of the scene.

“Now, we must take a carriage back,” said Kate decidedly; and no one objected now, for all were tolerably tired, between the physical fatigue and the mental strain involved in the mere appreciation of so much beauty. They stopped for a few minutes at the Burning Spring, to look, as in duty bound, at that natural curiosity, and then settled themselves comfortably in the carriage they had hailed, while Kate gave the order to return by Prospect Drive, along the bluffs above, whence they could take in the whole sweep of the grand river from Navy Island, at the foot of Lake Erie, to the dark, narrow gorge below the Falls, where the waters fret and toss their crests, like angry coursers fretting at the curbing bit.

“Now,” said Kate, “if it were not so late already, I should have had you driven to Lundy’s Lane,—only about a mile and a half west of us; but it’s too late, for to-day.”

“What is remarkable about Lundy’s Lane?” inquired Hugh Macnab. “I confess my ignorance.”

“Oh, of course; one doesn’t expect you to be posted in Canadian history,” Kate replied. “Lundy’s Lane is where the British troops and Canadian volunteers beat the Americans eighty years ago, when they tried to take Canada.”

“Oh! I see. Pardon my ignorance. I never happened to hear of such things as battle-grounds in connection with Niagara. I shall have to read up these historical associations.”

“May can tell you all about it,” replied Kate. “She’s great on Canadian history. And there is something about it in my guide book; so you can read up in the evenings all about Lundy’s Lane and Queenston Heights, and then you can see them both, if you care enough about it.”

The drive was charming, under the slanting rays of the August sun; the sky and water taking on such exquisite ethereal tints, the iris on the clouds of spray so delicately bright, that their gaze was constantly turning backwards as they glided rapidly over the smooth high-road back towards the “Clifton.”

“Now for a rest, then dinner—and then, you know, we shall have the moon, and a lovely time for watching the Falls by moonlight.”

Kate’s programme was fully enjoyed—not least the latter portion of it. They were all tempted forth for another stroll along the river bank, halting again at some of the points from whence they had so greatly enjoyed the afternoon views, to compare the difference of the moonlight effect—less distinct, but more romantic and suggestive. Kate and Flora preferred, on the whole, the play of color and cheerful light of day, while Hugh Macnab endorsed May’s preference for the moonlight, which is as effective at Niagara as at Melrose Abbey. They sat long on the piazza that night, saying little, but silently enjoying the marvelous scene—the glory of the white, shimmering water, the solemn majesty of the ascending column of misty spray, and the strong contrast of light and shade—until the picture seemed to have become a part of their mental consciousness, never to be forgotten and a “joy forever.”