Thousands are pulling at the
end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward
the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety
with which that little bark is watched as, trembling and tossing amid the
roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast? Save Niagara's eternal
roar, all is silent as the grave. His wife sees it and is only restrained
by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every
bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has
spread his wings over that little bark; the poor man's strength is almost
gone; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if
that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold
upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge,
where, with body, erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their
last look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, "Lost!" and
sinks forever from the gaze of man.
_Charles Tarson.
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