Andrew's cross.
Now let us sit down for a moment and watch the fish trying to leap
up the falls. There is a clear jump of about ten feet, and above
that an apparently impossible climb of ten feet more up a ladder of
twisting foam. A salmon darts from the boiling water at the bottom
of the fall like an arrow from a bow. He rises in a beautiful
curve, fins laid close to his body and tail quivering; but he has
miscalculated his distance. He is on the downward curve when the
water strikes him and tumbles him back. A bold little fish, not
more than eighteen inches long, makes a jump at the side of the
fall, where the water is thin, and is rolled over and over in the
spray. A larger salmon rises close beside us with a tremendous
rush, bumps his nose against a jutting rock, and flops back into the
pool. Now comes a fish who has made his calculations exactly. He
leaves the pool about eight feet from the foot of the fall, rises
swiftly, spreads his fins, and curves his tail as if he were flying,
strikes the water where it is thickest just below the brink, holds
on desperately, and drives himself, with one last wriggle, through
the bending stream, over the edge, and up the first step of the
foaming stairway. He has obeyed the strongest instinct of his
nature, and gone up to make love in the highest fresh water that he
can reach.
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