of youth returns to his limbs. In a moment more he is standing by her side. A wild shriek of tumultous joy from Mo-ne-ta rings through the valley high above the voices of the storm, and awakens the very echoes of the forest. The people rushed out from their wigwams. In the bright glare of the lightning they beheld in tableau vivant upon the beacon rock, Ta-en-da-ra standing upon its summit, with Mo-ne-ta bowing her head upon his bosom-mother and son in loving embrace. But such unutterable rapture is not for mortals. In an instant more a bolt came down from heaven jarring the earth with its violence, and shaking the beacon rock to its very foundations. The people, trembling, saw in the lightning the manifest presence of the Great Spirit. They heard His terrible voice in the thunder, and struck with unutterable awe they shrank back to their wigwams. In the morning the people gathered again around the beacon rock. Its surface was riven and shattered by the bolt. O-nos-qua's scattered bones were there, but no trace of Mo-ne-ta nor of Ta-en-da-ra was to be seen. Then it was that the people believed that that mother and her son had so consecrated their souls by a life-long sacrifice upon the altar of true affection that in the moment of their supreme felicity they had become too pure for earth and were absorbed translated into the presence of the Great Spirit by the power of His lightnings, which they thought were but sparks struck with awful thunderings from the eternal fire of His glory. And while they stood gazing upon this strange scene in awe and wonder, the sun came up over the eastern hills and shed his beams upon it, when lo! they for the first time saw that the rock was glittering all over with sparkling gems. "See, see!" they cried with one accord, "See Mo-ne-ta's tears," "Mo-ne-ta's tears." So free from earthly dross had been that mother's tears shed for her children, that the Great Spirit, by the refining fire of His glory, had changed them into crystals-into glittering immortelles such as cover forever the shining trees in the hunting grounds of the blessed, and to this day those crystalized tears are still to be seen imbedded in the solid rock, there to remain while the earth shall last as bright mementoes of a mother's changeless love. When the pale-face came across the big water and saw them he exclaimed, "See! see! a diamond rock! a diamond rock!" The tears of the dying deer falling upon the bright sands of the beach had suggested the old Indian's story. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TWO WATER WHEELS. "Be good, my friend, and let who will be clever; I. THE DREAMER. "Thou hast me a dreamer styled, I have gazed on thy wakefulness and smiled." Twenty years ago this morning, that is to say, on the 23d day of September, 18-, I left the old homestead farm and went to the village of Lowville, to enter upon the untried field of another vocation. It And now it seems to me but yesterday since I arose early on that bright autumn morning twenty years ago, took a last look at the sheep and lambs, the pigs and chickens, and saw the cows driven away to the river pasture. seems but yesterday since I bade the oxen and horses, my fellow-workers in many a hard day's toil, good-bye, and laid away the pitchfork and plough to take them up no more. Since then I have often said, and now I say, Alas the day! There is a world of drudgery upon the farm, but there is nowhere else such sweet rest. These personal reminiscences may not interest the reader, but at the thought of those old familiar fields on this, to me, an anniversary morning, they rush into consciousness all unbidden from the chambers of memory, and my pen records them against the promptings of my better judgment. The village of Lowville is situated upon a little stream at the foot of the terraced hills which skirt the western limits of the valley of the Black River in Northern New York. The village is surrounded on every side save that which faces the river with high hills, and nestles in groves of sugar maples and stately elms, which serve, when clothed with the exuberance of June, or decked in the more brilliant hues of October, to render it one of the earth's fairest bowers of beauty. In this quiet, unpretending, lovely village, thus situated about midway between the rush of traffic and travel that surges along the valley of the Mohawk on the one hand, and the St. Lawrence upon the other, yet far removed from the influence of either, I took up my abode. But twenty years have wrought great changes in the village of Lowville. Its elms have grown taller and its maples cast a wider breadth of shade. Stately blocks of stores and elegant mansions now adorn its streets, taking the places of the more humble structures of earlier days. But more than this. The telegraph and railroad have recently invaded the secluded valley of the Black River, bringing in their train the spirit of modern progress. The quiet village of twenty years ago has become a busy mart of trade, and now rivals in importance its more favored sisters upon the Mohawk and the St. Lawrence. The little stream above mentioned is formed by the junction of three branches near the village. These three branches come tumbling down the terraced slope of the plateau of the Lesser Wilderness from the westward in a series of beautiful rapids and cascades, and have worn deep gorges for their beds through the soft limestone rock that forms the foundation of the lower terraces of the hills. One day shortly after my arrival in the village, and while the Indian summer was pouring its glories over the land, I wandered up one of these gorges to the foot of a splendid cascade, there known as the Silvermine Falls, and sat down upon a rock under the shadow of an elm, to enjoy the scene before me. The water came rushing over the jagged limestone ledge in a beautiful shower of spray and foam. It had nothing to do there but to sputter and foam, and laugh and dance along, as wild and free as any mountain stream is wont to be before the hand of man turns it into the channels of labor. While I sat thus engaged, an old man came walking slowly up the gorge, aiding his uncertain steps with a huge hickory cane. He was tall, with stooping shoulders. His nose and his cheek-bones were prominent; his forehead protruding, his chin somewhat receding; his hair was long and scanty and as white as the driven snow. His garments were tattered and torn, and had been often patched with cloth of different colors. As he came along he was muttering incoherently to himself, and was so intent upon his thoughts that he did not see me as he passed the spot where I sat. He proceeded a few paces further and sat down upon a log of drift-wood. Removing his hat, which had long before seen better days, he wiped the beaded drops of sweat from his brow, and then gazed at the waterfall. As the old man sat thus, with his eyes intently fixed upon the foaming waters, he raised his voice above his mutterings into a distinct soliloquy. "They say it can't be done," said he, "but I say it can. |