As the hunter picked up his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree top brightened his face.
The hunter was Joe.
He was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocket of his hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up the ravine.

Presently a dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook.
It grew louder as he threaded his way carefully over the stones.
Spots of white foam flecked the brook.

Passing under the gray, stained cliff, Joe turned around a rocky corner, and came to an abrupt end of the ravine.

A waterfall marked the spot where the brook entered.

The water was brown as it took the leap, light green when it thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, it became a beautiful, sheeny white.
Upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, sat another hunter.