We will go down the bay
some day and look at those moraines, some of them quite hills of earth,
and then you will see for yourself how mighty a chisel the ice-chisel
was, and what vast heaps of chips it has left behind. Now then, down
over the lawn towards the bridge. Listen to the river, louder and louder
every step we take.
What a roar! Is there a waterfall there?
No. It is only the flood. And underneath the roar of that flood, do you
not hear a deeper note--a dull rumbling, as if from underground?
Yes. What is it?
The rolling of great stones under water, which are being polished against
each other, as they hurry toward the sea. Now, up on the parapet of the
bridge. I will hold you tight. Look and see Madam How's rain-spade at
work. Look at the terrible yellow torrent below us, almost filling up
the arches of the bridge, and leaping high in waves and crests of foam.
Oh, the bridge is falling into the water!
Not a bit. You are not accustomed to see water running below you at ten
miles an hour. Never mind that feeling. It will go off in a few
seconds. Look; the water is full six feet up the trunks of the trees;
over the grass and the king fern, and the tall purple loose-strife--
Oh! Here comes a tree dancing down!
And there are some turfs which have been cut on the mountain. And there
is a really sad sight. Look what comes now.
One--two--three.
Why, they are sheep.
Yes.
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