The water, of a dark reddish hue, in strong contrast with the snowy foam, circles around and around in the eddies, kissing the rocks on all sides in its whirl, and, amid the roar of the fall, goes dashing on for about four hundred feet, and then plunges over a “rolling dam” on its course to the Penobscot, making canoeing the balance of the distance on this river impossible.
GRAND FALLS—WEBSTER RIVER.
The light from above, reflecting on the cliff above the fall, glancing with rich beauty on rock and cascade, the fantastic growth of trees on every ledge, make up a fascinating charm that each succeeding picture varies in detail, but which pertains with almost equal force to every part of the entire chasm. While our artist was at work, we busied ourselves gathering the luscious blue and blackberries, and scarlet wintergreen berries which grew in profusion around us; they were of great size, the average blueberry being an inch, and the wintergreen berries an inch and a half in circumference—measurement being taken at the time on the spot.
After filling a three-quart pail with berries, we divided the artist’s “kit” among us, found the “carry,” and pressed on to camp, to which place our guides had preceded us with tent and canoes.
Supper ended, we again sought the river’s bank, a mile below the falls at a place called “the Arches,” where, in the radiance of a gorgeous sunset, we again drank to our fill of this picturesque locality. Words fail to describe the beauties of this scene, with which even the guides, slow to recognize the attractiveness of nature, were enraptured.
“O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,