more potent force than that of the sun.

Near the gorge lies the quaint old town of Clifton. The gray old
buildings never knew the use of paint. Nature was trying her
best to make them a part of the landscape. But why use
artificial means to create beauty, when Nature all around was so
prodigal? How one loves to contemplate architecture like this,
where the gray of the buildings blends with the gray of the
rocks.

With a feast of beauty spread above as well as beneath us, we
found ourselves repeating these words of an Ohio poet:

"Around me here rise up majestic trees
That centuries have nurtured: graceful elms.
Which interlock their limbs among the clouds;
Dark columned walnuts, from whose liberal store
The nut-brown Indian maids their baskets fill'd
Ere the first pilgrims knelt on Plymouth Rock;
Gigantic sycamores, whose mighty arms
Sheltered the Redman in his wigwam prone,
What time the Norsemen roamed our chartless seas;
And towering oaks, that from the subject plain
Sprang when the builders of the tumulis
First disappeared, and to the conquering hordes
Left these, the dim traditions of their race
That rise around, in many a form of earth
Tracing the plain, but shrouded in the gloom
Of dark, impenetrable shades, that fall
From the far centuries."