winking slyly at me and saying in that undertone you hear when you
forget the thunders for a moment: "Don't you worry about me, little man.
It's all a joke, and I don't mind. Only to-morrow and then another
to-morrow, and there won't be any smelters or trolley cars or ginger-ale
or peanuts or sentimentalizing outers like yourself. But I'll be here
howling under sun and stars."

Whereupon I posed the toiling philosopher before the camera, pressed
the bulb, and descended from the summit of the cliff (as well as from my
point of view) to the trail skirting northward up the river, leaving
Encleadus grumbling at his crank.

Perhaps, after all, cranks really have to be turned. Still, it seems too
bad, and I have long bewailed it almost as a personal grief, that
utility and ugliness should so often be running mates.

They tell me that the Matterhorn never did a tap of work; and you
couldn't color one Easter egg with all the gorgeous sunsets of the
world! May we all become, some day, perfectly useless and beautiful!

At the foot of the first fall, a mammoth spring wells up out of the
rock. Nobody tells you about it; you run across it by chance, and it
interests you much more in that way. It would seem that a spring
throwing out a stream equivalent to a river one hundred yards wide and
two feet deep would deserve a little exploitation. Down East they would
have a great white sprawling hotel built close by it wherein one could
drink spring water (at a quarter the quart), with half a pathology
pasted on the bottle as a label. But nobody seems to care much about so
small an ooze out there: everything else is so big. And so it has
nothing at all to do but go right on being one of the very biggest