“And then I’ve lots of friends at home,
From whom just now away I roam;
I trust they’ll all be safe and sound
When I again at home am found.”
“That is enough for to-day,” said Maggie “but I am going to make a
long poem out of it, and I’ll do some more another time. I s’pose
Niagara will be a good thing to put in it. You know they say it is
splendid.”
“What is ‘roam’?” asked Bessie, who must always inquire the meaning of
every word she did not understand.
“To travel about. Just what we’re doing,” answered Maggie.
“Then why don’t you say travel? I think it’s the nicest word.”
“But it is not so uncommon,” said Maggie; “and you know when people
write poetry they always put in all the uncommon words they can find.”
“Do they?” said Bessie, as if she did not quite approve of this rule.
“Yes, to be sure,” answered Maggie. “You know prose is just common
talking; but poetry is uncommon talking, and you have to make it sound
as fine as you can, and put words you don’t use every day.”
“Oh!” said Bessie. “Well, if you have done, I guess we’d better give
papa back his book.”
Accordingly, the book was carried to papa, who had not had any idea
that Maggie’s poetical fancy would carry her so far, and who was rather
surprised to see several pages scribbled over with verses that were
lined and interlined, scratched out and written over, in a manner which
did not add to the beauty or neatness of the book.
However, he only laughed, and taking out his penknife carefully cut out
the scribbled leaves and gave them to the little poetess, who rolled
them up, and tying them round with a bit of twine, stowed them away in
her satchel, till such time as she should be ready to copy and add to
them.
But she did not find leisure for this till they had been at Niagara for
two or three days; and then, when she looked in her travelling-bag for
the precious poem, lo! it was gone! In vain did she and Bessie take out
all the other contents from the satchel, shake it, and feel in each
corner and pocket: no poem came to light, and great was the sorrowing
over its loss.
“Then I s’pose I’ll never hear of it again,” said Bessie, regretfully,
when mamma said she thought Maggie must have pulled it out with some of
the other things her bag contained, and so dropped it, unseen.
But poor Maggie _was_ to hear of her poem again; to hear a little too
much of it.
The two parties spent a week or more at Niagara Falls, visiting many
a point of interest and beauty,--sometimes together, sometimes apart;
now standing below the level of the Rapids, and looking backward at
their white foaming crests drawn sharply against the blue sky, as
the mad waters went whirling and rushing over the slope; now, in the
early morning, looking up to the top of the Great Fall, which shone
and flashed like jewels in the rays of the sun, the gray mist curling
below, and a glorious rainbow stretching from shore to shore; now
taking the little steamer which plies to the foot of the cataract,
into the very midst of the thick, blinding spray. Mamma did not think
it best for Bessie to go on this expedition; but strong, hardy, little
Maggie was allowed to go, well wrapped in water-proof, and held fast
in papa’s or Uncle Ruthven’s arms. On the whole, however, Maggie did
not enjoy this as much as she did the other excursions. In the first
place, Bessie was not with her, and then she wanted to laugh at the
droll, miserable-looking figures about her, but would not do so, lest
she should “hurt their feelings, when they looked so very unhappy, and
as if they wished they had not come.”
Then again they would pass over to some of the lovely little islands,
which here and there break the rapids above the American Fall. Two of
them, Ship and Brig Islands, had a special interest for the children,
from their resemblance to ships under full sail. Even Bessie, who could
never be persuaded to imagine any thing which she did not distinctly
see, noticed this, and said she felt almost sorry for them, for it
seemed as if they were “real live ships trying to sail out of the
waters that were hurrying them away so fast.”
Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton had gone over to Goat Island one
afternoon, taking the little girls with them. Here they were lying
and sitting under the overarching trees, looking at the Hermit’s
Cascade, and listening to the deep, never-ceasing voice of the great
cataract, when they were joined by the younger portion of the Maynard
party,--Kate and her brother, and Mr. and Miss Temple.
Maggie and Bessie had by this time taken Mr. Charlie Maynard into
special favor, looking upon him with eyes nearly as friendly as those
with which they regarded his sister; and they were glad to see both
him and Kate. Miss Temple, too, a quiet, lady-like girl, they liked
very well, and did not object to her; but they could very well have
dispensed with her brother’s society. However, he did not on this
occasion seem at first disposed to prove teasing or troublesome, but
stretched himself upon the grass, with his head supported on his arm
and his hat half over his eyes.
But, by and by, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Stanton, seeing an old friend at
a little distance, went to speak to him; the former telling his little
girls to remain where they were till he returned. They were scarcely
out of hearing, when George Temple, turning lazily over so as to face
Maggie, though he still kept his eyes shaded by his hat, said,--
“This is delightful! One could dream half one’s life away in this
enchanting place and in such pleasant company. Have we not a poet or
poetess among us to put it all into verse? What! no answer to the call?
Then I shall have to try my hand at it.”
“You making verses!” said his sister, laughing, and playfully pulling
the brown locks which escaped from beneath his hat. “You making
verses! a lame style of poetry that would be, to be sure.”
“I don’t know,” said George. “Certainly I never appeared to have much
talent that way; but no one can tell what he may be able to do when a
fitting time arrives. I feel on the present occasion like the gifted
authoress who says so touchingly,--
‘I have so very many mercies
I have to write them down in verses.’”
Maggie started, and looked up from the little bunch of wild flowers she
was arranging to carry home to her mother.