“Hydro’s” biggest feat in physical construction is the great development, known as the Queenston Chippewa plant, on the Niagara River. This station is designed to produce six hundred thousand horse-power, or about one sixth as much as all the electrical energy now generated in Canada. Suppose we visit it with one of the engineers. Stepping into an automobile, we drive first toward the falls, now partly obscured in the clouds of mist from the tumbling, roaring, boiling waters. Our way lies through the park the Canadians have made so that the people may enjoy for all time the approaches to this monarch among the wonders of Nature. We stop at Chippewa, at the mouth of the Welland River. This stream used to empty into the Niagara River above the falls, but to-day its channel carries the water diverted from the Niagara for the supply of the power station. The river was deepened and widened for a distance of four and a half miles, and then a canal was dug through the remaining eight and a half miles to the site of the plant. Now we turn back, and as our car passes over one of the numerous bridges across the big ditch, we look down upon a miniature Panama Canal, fifty feet wide at water level, and thirty-nine feet deep. In many places it was cut through hills of rock to a depth of more than one hundred feet. When the station is operated at full capacity, the flow of water through the canal is more than twice that of the Connecticut River. Seven miles below the falls we come to the power plant. If your nerves are steady, walk out to the cliff and see where we are. Look first across the great gorge. Those hills over there are in the state of New York. See their steep, rocky sides, with van-coloured strata exposed by the wearing action of the Niagara River through millions of years. To our left, and hardly a mile away, the high plateau suddenly drops off; below it are the glistening waters of Lake Ontario. We are near the end of the escarpment over which Niagara Falls once plunged into the lake. Now look straight down; the Niagara River is three hundred feet below us. From this height it looks like an innocent stream. It is really a raging torrent in the final throes of its mad struggle to get into Lake Ontario. The workmen clinging to the sheer, rocky face of the cliff under our feet, and boring into it with their drills, seem like huge insects using their stingers. That big block of concrete, resting on a shelf carved out of the rock and washed by the current, is the power station. It has the dimensions of an eighteen-story office building, and part of it is lower than the surface of the river.