The river just before making its final plunge was compressed into a kenyon-like passage not more than one-half its width a hundred yards further up. This deepened and gave it far greater velocity, the current shooting forward like a mill-race, the surface being covered with little eddying waves, as if they were sensible of the awful caldron into which they were so soon to make their boiling plunge. But the entire volume, sweeping forward with an indescribable grandeur and majesty, moved over the ledge in a solid, compact body, fully a dozen feet in depth and without a break. Descending perhaps a rod, in the same solid volume of a deep green color, it could be seen the outer surface of this mass began to assume, here and there, a white, feathery appearance, which rapidly increased, until, something less than a hundred feet below, it resembled an Alpine avalanche--all of a glistening, snowy white. Here where the water was arrested, there was a perfect pandemonium; the billows turning and rolling over each other, throwing the blinding spray far up on both banks, while a thousand currents and counter-currents struggled and fought with each other with such desperate fierceness, that it was not until the stream had reached a point several hundred yards away, and had expanded into its usual breadth, that it assumed any thing like its natural appearance. The din that filled the ears of Little Rifle, as he stood on a flat, projecting slab of rock, where his clothing was speedily saturated, was enough to drive an ordinary person frantic, although it scarcely affected one who had spent such a portion of his life in the wilderness as had he. But here he might have shouted his voice away, and not the slightest sound would have been heard even by himself. He could do nothing but stand and watch and wait, with that freezing terror all through his nerves that made him feel as if he must forever remain rooted to the spot. “But where is the canoe?” he thought, when it seemed to him that he had been waiting an interminable period, while, from the very nature of the case, he had been there only a few seconds. “Could it have gone over while I was making my way to the spot? No, that can not be, for I almost flew. Oh! is there no hand to save him?” At that instant Little Rifle caught sight of the canoe, as it glided swiftly out to view, seeming to poise itself for a moment in mid-air, like an eagle balancing himself for his earthward sweep, and then the boat, with its brave occupant, shot downward, with a velocity that seemed almost to baffle the eye. It appeared as if the water as it swept over the ledge of rocks was of unusual density, for the canoe rested on the surface, like a feather, as though it had lost all weight. Little Rifle saw the prow, following the curve of the river, turn downward, so that it stood perfectly perpendicular, the white-faced but resolute lad who occupied it grasping the sides with his hands so as to maintain his place.