lurch, and then on again in
cheerful, hurried course down the Appalachian valley.

None stays their way. Here and there perhaps some thrifty Pennsylvania
Dutchman coaxes the saucy stream to turn his mill-wheel and every league
or so it fumes and frets a bit against some rustic bridge. From these
trifling tourneys though, it emerges only the more eager and impetuous
in its path toward the towns below.

The Fatal River.

Coming nearer, step by step, to the busy haunts of men, the dashing
brook takes on a more ambitious air. Little by little it edges its
narrow banks aside, drinks in the waters of tributaries, swells with the
copious rainfall of the lower valley. From its ladder in the Alleghanies
it catches a glimpse of the steeples of Johnstown, red with the glow of
the setting sun. Again it spurts and spreads as if conscious of its new
importance, and the once tiny rill expands into the dignity of a river,
a veritable river, with a name of its own. Big with this sounding symbol
of prowess it rushes on as if to sweep by the teeming town in a flood of
majesty. To its vast surprise the way is barred. The hand of man has
dared to check the will of one that up to now has known no curb save
those the forest gods imposed. For an instant the waters, taken aback by
this strange audacity, hold themselves in leash. Then, like erl-king in
the German legends, they broaden out to engulf their opponent. In vain
they surge with crescent surface against the barrier of stone. By day,
by night, they beat and breast in angry impotence against the ponderous
wall of masonry that man has reared, for pleasure and profit, to stem
the mountain stream.

The Awful Rush of Waters.

Suddenly, maddened by the stubborn hindrance, the river grows black and
turgid. It rumbles and threatens as if confident of an access of
strength that laughs at resistance. From far up the hillside comes a
sound, at first soft and soothing as the fountains of Lindaraxa, then
rolling onward it takes the voluminous quaver of a distant waterfall.
Louder and louder, deeper and deeper, nearer and nearer comes an awful
crashing and roaring, till its echoes rebound from the crags of the
Alleghanies like peals of thunder and boom of cannon.

On, on, down the steep valley trumpets the torrent into the river at
Jamestown. Joined to the waters from the cloud kissed summits of its
source, the exultant Conemaugh, with a deafening din, dashes its way
through the barricade o