mond became subdued till it had taken the form of a perfect arch, with its perfect reflection in the water.
We were looking along a dark, straight stream, shaded over like the low arch of a bridge, until the gun barrel simile was the most likely, and, at the end or muzzle, the vision was carried across three miles of open and smooth water flashing to the sun.
Mr. Moseley photographed the scene. It was the first time, in all probability, that this picture, incomparable of its kind, had ever been taken by a camera, though Tom Moore surely must have sketched it when he stood at this same feeder lock eighty-five years ago.
At the request of the good-natured colored boy from Wallaceton we photographed the lockhouse, including him. He asked, could he have the picture, and Mr. Moseley promised to send him one.
"Send it," he said, with the importance of a serious child, as he named his many initials, "to D. J. L. Griffin, care of Abeham."
Then we started down the gun barrel toward the lovely bridge, the perfection of which remained unbroken to the last. Here was no effort of landscape art, but the living hand of nature completing its own picture and putting all art as gently out of question as the mountain does the mole.
