One is here reminded that our sojourn is not much more a than the wild water lapping against the rocks or the waves that beat against the rocky ledges and are gone. Yet will they never reappear? Even while we linger here the spray forms cloud fleets to float across the azure sky of June; drifting like white- sailed ships far out to sea. The resurrection of Niagara Waters!
MY HOME
"This is the place which I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
Hid among grasses and vines and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen—
Sifts and quivers and flits and falls,
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June the west wind free
The breath of the clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of the newmown hay.
The morning-glories and scarlet vine,
Over the doorway twist and twine
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn in my snow-white bed,
By a singing-bird on the roof o'erhead.
Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home—
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother's face, like a painting rare.
Far from the city's dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay
Week after week here, hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best
The little brown house like a ground-bird's nest.
—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.