LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 47 



In such surroundings, half wild, half tame, 

 I had hope of finding some strange bird ; it 

 would be pleasant to associate him with a 

 spot so famous. But the voices were all 

 familiar: wood thrushes, Carolina wrens, 

 bluebirds, summer tanagers, catbirds, a 

 Maryland yellow-throat, vireos (red-eyes and 

 white-eyes), goldfinches, a field sparrow (the 

 dead could want no sweeter requiem than he 

 was chanting, but the wood pewee shoiild 

 have been here also), indigo-birds, and chats. 

 In one of the wildest and roughest places 

 a Kentucky warbler started to sing, and I 

 plunged downward among the rocks and 

 bushes (here was maiden-hair fern, I remem- 

 ber), hoping to see him. It was only my 

 second hearing of the song, and it would 

 be prudent to verify my recollection; but 

 the music ceased, and I saw nothing. At the 

 turn, where the land begins to decline west- 

 ward, I came to a low, semicircular wall 

 of earth. Here, doubtless, on that fateful 

 November morning, when clouds covered the 

 mountain sides, the Confederate troops 

 meant to make a stand against the invader. 

 Now a wilderness of young blue-green per- 

 simmon-trees had sprung up about it, as 



