When they had finished eating, Song, Dann and Dippler took the rope from the Swallow and set off across the rocks to explore downstream. The grandeur of the scenery was awesome: hurtling water, towering stone and spray forever cascading through curtains of mist, over which the rainbow arched like a massive colored bridge. Traveling in single file, they made good use of the rope to span places where there were gaps in the ledges. Sometimes they rested in somber moss-strewn crevices where sunlight never reached. Other times they pawed cautiously over expanses of smooth banded stone, almost hot to the touch. Just beyond the two big rocks that stood center stream, the mist cleared and they halted with gasps of wonderment at the sight.

It was as if they were standing at the very edge of the earth. Billowing, leaping, roaring, vast masses of water fell abruptly downward into the shrouding fog of boiling spray far below. Dippler clasped his friends’ paws, eyes wide as he stared down into the hurtling chaos, his shouts almost lost in the reverberating din.

“Lookit that waterfall! Wooooooow!”

They sat on the rock edge, drenched with spray, watching the awesome majesty of the waterfall. Dann pointed to the far side, where the bank ran out a short distance underwater, forming an incredibly swift shallows. There was a great bird pacing up and down the bankside, watching the water intently.

“Great seasons, look at the size of that feller! What sort o’ bird would you call him?”

Dippler had spent his life around waterways. Though he had only ever seen the species once before, it was unforgettable. “That’s a fishin’ eagle. ’Tis called an osprey!”

The bird had a white crown of plumage, and its underparts too were snowy white. A mask, dark brown, almost black, stretched around its savage golden eyes, spreading back over shoulders and wings; it had a heavy hooked beak and fearsome talons. Silently they watched it prowling the bank. It struck once, but came back without any catch. Song was puzzled. “Aren’t they supposed to fly and swoop on the fish, Dipp?”

“Aye, that’s what they usually do. Aha, look!”

The eagle struck the water again, but could not catch the fish it was chasing. It gave a shriek of temper and charged awkwardly into the water, one wing flapping to retain its balance. Dippler nodded knowingly. “It can’t fly, see, keeps one wing close to its side. Musta been injured at some time, I reckon, Song.”

The pretty young squirrelmaid was full of sympathy. “Oh, the poor bird. Imagine having big beautiful wings and not being able to use them. Oh, it’s so sad to watch him!”

Dippler chuckled as he saw a brown trout leaping and squirming in the shallows as the osprey chased it.

“Pore bird? What about the pore fish, missie? Mind though, that trout’s leadin’ the eagle a merry dance. Mebbe it’ll escape!”