them, indeed, are dashed into invisible spray before they reach a level.
One of the handsomest of these falls has been named the Horse-tail, by somebody more given to ponies than to poetry. It has a straight descent, of several hundred feet, to a basin hidden from view, whence it descends by another fall to the level of the bottom-land, and forms another basin, or pool, among the dense growth of Cottonwood, ash, and willow, which everywhere fringe the banks of the river.
Nearly opposite this foil is a high, precipitous wall of reddish rock, coming quite down to the river, and curving in a rounded face, so as to form a little bay above. This is the Cape Horn of the lower Columbia—a point where the Wind Spirit lies in wait for canoes and other small craft, keeping them weatherbound for days together. Fine as it is, steaming up the Columbia in July weather, there are times when storms of wind and sand make the voyage impossible to any but a steam-propelled vessel. It is at our peril that we invade the grand sanctuaries of Nature in her winter moods. The narrow channel of the river among the mountains, the height of the overhanging cliffs—which confine the wind as in a funnel—and the changes of temperature to which, even in summer, mountain localities are subject, make this a stormy passage at some periods of the year.
Sitting out upon the steamer's deck, of a summer morning, we are not much troubled with visions of storms: the scene is as peaceful as it is magnificent. Steaming ahead, straight into the heart of the mountains, each moment affords a fresh delight to the wondering senses. The panorama of grandeur and beauty seems endless. As we approach the lower end of the
