pencil, and followed him to the door. They were soon rolling away.

Florence saw nothing till they gained the bridge,--frail, trembling
thing, thrown at such dizzy height above the wild, rushing river. Her
father asked if she would ride or walk over. She would walk, and he
ordered the driver to halt. Assisting her from the carriage, they
stepped upon the swaying fabric. Florence kept close to the railings,
though he cautioned her to walk in the centre, and called her attention
to the fine view of the falls in the distance. But she did not notice
them, and, pausing suddenly, drew the sheet of note-paper from her
pocket and commenced writing.

"What are you doing?" said her father at length, noticing her head bowed
close to the railing.

"Wait a moment and I'll tell you," said she. "There! I believe I have
them all correct now. Shall I read them to you?"

"What are they?" asked he.

"Verses. I found them written in pencil on this painted strip."

"Are they worth reading?" inquired he, carelessly.

"O, yes!" she returned, earnestly. "Very pretty, I think!"

"Well, go on, then!" said he.

She commenced in a low tone, which grew in depth and sweetness as she
proceeded. Surely, if the author had never had the vanity to deem his
brief production possessed of merit, he would have grown into conceit of
it had he heard it falling so sweetly from those half-tremulous lips.

"Sea-green river, white and foamy,
Madly rushing on below;
While that fairy-looking fabric
Bends, and sways, and trembles so;
Fragile, frail and fairy fabric,
Boldly thrown so wildly high;
Wondrous work of art suspended
Midway 'twixt the earth and sky!

"Strong and firm the metal wires
Stretch to Canada's green shores;
As to link with bands of iron
Queen Victoria's realms to ours.
Passage-way for England's lion,
Unborn ages may it be;
While above him, in the ether,
Sails the Eagle of the Free!

"In the distance, dread Niagara,
Thing of wonder and of fear,
Pours its mighty flood of waters,
While the echoes soothe the ear.
Nature's wildest forms of beauty.
All around profusely thrown;
Bowing in her proudest temple,
Beggared Art, we humbly own!"

As Florence ceased she refolded the paper and placed it in her pocket.

"You did not read the author's name," said her father.

"There was no name attached to them," answered