The trail made a sharp turn to the left, the trees suddenly came to an end, and in their place were large piles of mossy, ragged boulders.  The canyon ended in a perpendicular, moss-covered wall, hundreds of feet high, and from the top of this wrinkled old cliff leaped the stream into the canyon below.  On an old tin sign, fastened to the stump of an immense tree, were the words, “St. Marys.”  Directly at the base of the falls, and at their extreme edge, stood a grand old spruce tree, straight and clean as an arrow, its slender top reaching nearly to the top of the falls.  They seemed to be happy comrades, for the tree was gently vibrating with the soft, half-wild music of the crystal stream.

After every nook and cranny had been explored, the group began to retrace their steps down the canyon.

“Isn’t it a wonderful little spot?” asked Phil, as they sat down by the bridge to rest.  “Who do you suppose ever built this trail away up here?  See, it has been dug from the very mountain-side in many places, and this bridge wasn’t built as a mere footbridge—­it was built to support heavy loads of something.”

“Perhaps somewhere way up in those trees there is an old mine,” suggested Fat.

“I’ve been wondering if there was,” slowly questioned Willis.  “I’d like to go and look, for I’m not a bit tired.”  His eyes were big with the wonder of the place.

“It surely is a treat to him, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Allen.

“Yes, and to us all,” replied Ham.  “I just wonder what some city people would think of it.  When I get old, fellows, I’m going to find me some such a little canyon as this and live out my life in it.  I don’t believe a fellow could ever think a mean thought out here, could he?  He’d be almost afraid to.”

“It’s an ideal place, all right,” returned Mr. Allen.

“Why, I believe I’d be an orator if I just had this valley for a class,” went on Ham.

“It’s a good thing such places can’t be moved,” suggested Phil, “or some of these wealthy fellows would be buying them all up and putting them in their art galleries.  This view would create quite a sensation in New York City, don’t you think?  Fifty thousand dollars is not much for a few feet of masterpiece, but this can be had for a few dollars an acre.  Strange, isn’t it?”

“A man paints a little picture on a canvas and worries over it until his hair gets long and his face sad.  He is then a genius.  People go wild over a man that can copy a little scene.  Yet those same people declare there is no Creator.  Account for a valley like this without Him, can you?” declared Fat.

“The man that can deny Him, standing here in this little bit of His handiwork,” solemnly declared Ham, “is blind, deaf, and dumb, besides having marked tendencies toward insanity.”

“Halloo,” came in a clear shout from up on the hillside.

“By gracious, he’s found a mine!” cried Ham, jumping up.