"Ill is the wind that blows no person good"—
So said the adage, and as luck would have it,
A huge grey eagle out in search of food,
Who just had whet his hunger with a rabbit,
Attacked the other, and the pair together,
In deadly combat fell into the river.
Our friend of course made off, when she'd done falling
Some sixty yards, and well indeed she might;
For ne'er, perhaps, a fish got such a mauling
Since Adam's time, or went up such a height
Into the air, and came down helter-skelter,
As did this poor production of a melter.
All these, with many other dangers, she survived,
Too manifold in this short space to mention;
So we'll suppose her to have now arrived
Safe at the Falls, without much more detention
Than one could look for, where so many liked her
Company, and so many Indians spiked her.
And here a mighty barrier stops her way:
The tranquil water, finding in its course
Itself beset with rising rocks, which lay
As though they said, "retire ye to your source,"
Bursts with indignant fury from its bondage, now
Rushes in foaming torrents to the chasm below.
The persevering fish then at the foot arrives,
Laboring with redoubled vigor mid the surging tide,
And finding, by her strength, she vainly strives
To overcome the flood, though o'er and o'er she tried;
Her tail takes in her mouth, and bending like a bow
That's to full compass drawn, aloft herself doth throw;
And spinning in the air, as would a silver wand
That's bended end to end and upwards cast,
Headlong she falls amid the showering waters, and
Gasping for breath, against the rocks is dashed:
Again, again she vaults, again she tries,
There was, in Oregon City, a literary society called the "Falls Association," some of whose effusions were occasionally sent to the Spectator, and this may have been one
