But the cliff had for centuries defied all climbers, though it
gave footing here and there to a few friendly plants. At its base the
starry-rayed leaf-cup shed a heavy scent in the stillness of the moist
morning. Higher, at the entrance to a little cave, the aromatic
spikenard, with purple stems and big leaves, stood like a sentinel.
From crannies in the limestone wall the harebell hung, its last
flowers faded, but its foliage still delicately beautiful, like the
tresses of some wraith of the river, clinging to the grim old cliff,
and waiting, like Andromeda, for a Perseus. Tiny blue-green leaves of
the cliff-brake, strung on slender, shining stems, contrasted their
delicate grace with the ruggedness of the old cliff. Still higher,
where a little more moisture trickled down from the wooded ridge
above, the walking fern climbed step by step, patiently pausing to
take new footings by sending out roots from the end of each long,
pointed leaf. Near the top of the cliff, where the red cedars gave
some shade, little communities of bulb-bearing ferns and of polypody
displayed their exquisite fronds, as welcome in a world of beauty as
smiles on a mother's face. Mosses and lichens grew here and there,
staining the face of the old cliff gray, green and yellow.
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