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Updated: May 26, 2025
I looked down. The water was rising in my own boat. I could not heed it just now. "'In a moment, I thought, 'I would stop to bail it out. "It was a boat that I saw. It moved on so swiftly, the chime of the oars, tiny oars they were, was so sweetly, softly musical, the very drippling drops fell so like globules of silver, that I forgot my mission. I held my oars and waited.
The following graphic pen-picture will give the reader an accurate idea of the picturesque scene of the disaster: Away up in the misty crags of the Alleghanies some tiny rills trickle and gurgle from a cleft in the mossy rocks. The drippling waters, timid perhaps in the bleak and lonely fastness of the heights, hug and coddle one another until they flash into a limpid pool.
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