[Illustration:  THE FALLS OF THE ILSE]

The lower we descend the more delightfully did subterranean waters ripple around us; only here and there they peeped out amid rocks and bushes, appearing to be reconnoitring if they might yet come to light, until at last one little spring jumped forth boldly.  Then followed the usual show—­the bravest one makes a beginning, and then to their own astonishment the great multitude of hesitators, suddenly inspired with courage, rush forth to join the first.  Myriads of springs now leaped in haste from their ambush, united with the leader, and finally formed quite an important brook, which, with its innumerable waterfalls and beautiful windings, ripples down the valley.  This is now the Ilse—­the sweet, pleasant Ilse.  She flows through the blest Ilse vale, on whose sides the mountains gradually rise higher and higher, being clad even to their base with beech-trees, oaks, and the usual shrubs, the firs and other needle-covered evergreens having disappeared; for that variety of trees grows preferably upon the “Lower Harz,” as the east side of the Brocken is called in contradistinction to the west side or Upper Harz.  Being in reality much higher, it is therefore better adapted to the growth of evergreens.

It is impossible to describe the merriment, simplicity, and charm with which the Ilse leaps down over the fantastically shaped rocks which rise in her path, so that the water strangely whizzes or foams in one place. amid rifted rocks, and in another pours forth in perfect arches through a thousand crannies, as if from a giant watering-pot, and then, lower down, trips away again over the pebbles like a merry maiden.  Yes, the old legend is true; the Ilse is a princess, who, in the full bloom of youth, runs laughing down the mountain side.  How her white foam garment gleams in the sunshine!  How her silvered scarf flutters in the breeze!  How her diamonds flash!  The high beech-trees gaze down on her like grave fathers secretly smiling at the capricious self-will of a darling child; the white birch-trees nod their heads like delighted aunts, who are, however, anxious at such bold leaps; the proud oak looks on like a not over-pleased uncle, who must pay for all the fine weather; the birds joyfully sing their applause; the flowers on the bank whisper, “Oh, take us with thee, take us with thee, dear sister!” But the merry maiden may not be withheld, and she leaps onward and suddenly seizes the dreaming poet, and there streams over me a flower-rain of ringing gleams and flashing tones, and my senses are lost in all the beauty and splendor, and I hear only the voice, sweet pealing as a flute—­

  I am the Princess Ilse,
    And dwell in Ilsenstein;
  Come with me to my castle,
    Thou shalt be blest—­and mine!

  With ever-flowing fountains
    I’ll cool thy weary brow;
  Thou’lt lose amid their rippling
    The cares which grieve thee now.