It waved to and fro in the air like a streamer; it had a slow pulse, lifting it and letting it drop, like the appearance of a waterfall seen from the window of a car in motion, only this was irregular and quite slow; it was soft and fleecy; it made no audible noise; it looked dangerous to see it fall from so great a height; but it was caught in the air, to your relief, as one who falls in his dream lights upon his soft bed.

The lines of Gray, in his Bard, were suggested by the sight of this mountain, though not by any close resemblance: "Loose his beard; his hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air." The ladies had other images suggested by it.

One said, "It is a beautiful hand, waving Godspeed to us on our journey." That brought tears into the eyes of some of us, reminding us so of meetings and partings at home, and chording well with our pilgrim condition.

We concluded to make response; and we tarried there.
The rock seemed to be full of water, oozing out from the seams, dripping over rich mosses, with jets, here and there, leaping into the light with a bound of a few inches, and quietly expiring among the thick weather-stains and lichens, as if satisfied with their brief existence.
The little things made me think of the sweet souls of infants passing into time, and then immediately out of it.

As we listened, we heard what Addison describes in his version of the twenty-third Psalm: "And streams shall murmur all around." The ladies took off their bonnets, and we our hats, and we stood under the cascade, looking up, and feeling, or fancying that we felt, the cool spray on our heads and faces.