Standing upon its margin was Frank Somers,
his eyes fixed with intense interest upon a frail raft that was
plunging and heaving among the boiling waves. Upon it stood a man
about the middle of life, with an athletic form and a determined
expression of countenance, his eyes fixed fiercely upon a brace of
logs that had been left reposing on the quiet bosom of the waters,
waiting their turn to be sawed into boards. It was a valuable lot,
and would bring considerable of an income to the owner, therefore he
pursued it over the rapid current, hoping to arrest its course ere
it reached the falls. Beside him stood a young boy on the raft,
his cheeks blanched to marble whiteness, and his dark eyes fixed
imploringly upon his father as they danced along over the furious
wave, every bound conveying them so much nearer the falls that
thundered on like a mighty cataract, heaving up a cloud of spray, then
foaming and dashing off to join the mad waters below. O, it was a
fearful sight. On, on went the logs, and on, on went the raft, the
reckless man exerting himself to his utmost to stop their progress by
endeavoring to reach them with a long pole he held in his hand.
Willie Somers raised his pleading eyes to his face (and many long
years after did their expression haunt him), "O Mr. Lambert, please
don't go any farther, we shall be over the falls."
"Pshaw, child," answered Mr. Lambert, rather sternly, "I must save my
logs at any risk.
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