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Updated: June 16, 2025
The trees far up, sharp-etched against the blue, Let but the river's strip of skylight through To trees below, that on each jutting ledge Scant foothold found to overlook the edge, As still as statues on their niches there, Where no breeze stirred the ever-shadowed air, Spellbound spectators, crowded tier on tier From where the lowest, bending to be near The shock of spray, with leaves a-tremble stood In shuddering gaze above the swirling flood.
As near as might be guessed, it wanted yet an hour or two of daybreak when we made a landing within the boundaries of Appleby Hundred, and beached and hid the pirogue in the bushes. Of the down-stream flitting through the small hours of the warm midsummer night there is no sharp-etched picture on the memory page.
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