Long ago, the Indians of the forest used to gather at Nіаgаrа Fаlls every year, to offer a sacrifice to the spirit that lived in that mighty cataract. The offering was made in a white canoe which was filled with ripe fruit and beautiful flowers. The canoe was paddled by a girl, the prettiest one who had just arrived at the age of womanhood. It was considered an honour to be selected as the guide of the canoe to the brink of the falls. Even the girl chosen felt complimented and honoured.

One year the maiden chosen for the sacrifice to the spirit of the cataract was the only daughter of a chief of the Senecas. Her father was the bravest among brave warriors. Her mother had been killed by an enemy tribe. Their beautiful daughter was his great joy; she was the only one who could bring smiles to his stern face. When the chief learned that she had been chosen for the sacrifice, he did not allow a muscle of his face to move. In no way did he give any sign of the agony in his heart.

The time for the ceremony arrived. All day there were festivities beside the little river-singing and dancing and games. When even- ing came, all the people gathered for the sailing of the white canoe. It had already been heaped with flowers and fruit, gifts for the spirit of Niagara. The moon shone on the water, making the foam and mist from the cataract gleam with soft and silvery light. The waterfall thundered, but the people were quiet. The songs and whoops of the day-time ceremony had ceased. The people looked up the river quietly and expectantly.

Soon they saw a white canoe gliding from under the trees along the bank. Swiftly it came through the rapids above the cataract. All knew that there was no escape from those rushing waters. With seeming calmness the girl guided her canoe toward the centre of the stream. The watching people lost their own calmness and shouted at her, some with frantic yells and some with words of admiration and encouragement.

Suddenly their attention was drawn away from the girl and her canoe. They saw a second white canoe leave the shadows of the forest and shoot forth upon the river. Quickly it neared the first canoe. Soon the people on the bank recognized the man with the paddle. It was their chief, the father of the girl to be sacrificed. With a few powerful strokes he had his canoe beside his daughter's. Father and daughter turned to look at each other as the two canoes plunged, side by side, over the thundering cataract. Together they joined the spirit of Niagara.

Some people say that they were changed into spirits of pure strength, that she is the maid of the mist, he the ruler of the cataract. To them in their home far beneath the surface of the water, the roaring of Niagara is music.