126 A WEEK ON WALDEN'S BIDGE. 



As we drove into Chattanooga, it was im- 

 possible not to smile at the pinched and 

 woebegone appearance of the colored people. 

 What had they to do with weather that 

 makes a man hurry ? And the next morn- 

 ing, when an enterprising, bright-faced white 

 boy ran up to me with a " ' Times,' sir ? 

 Have a ' Times ' ? " I fear he quite misap- 

 prehended the more or less quizzical expres- 

 sion which I am sure came into my face. I 

 was looking at his black woolen mittens, and 

 thinking how well he was mothered. It was 

 the 19th of May ; for at least three weeks, 

 to my own knowledge, the city had been 

 sweltering under the hottest of midsummer 

 heats, — 94° in the shade, for example ; and 

 now, mittens and overcoats ! 



I should be sorry to exaggerate, or leave 

 a false impression. In this day of literary 

 conscientiousness, when writers of fiction 

 itself are truth-tellers first, and story-teUers 

 afterwards, — if at all, — it behooves mere 

 tourists and naturalists to speak as under 

 oath. Be it confessed, then, that the fore- 

 going paragraphs, though true in every 

 word, are not to be taken too seriously. If 

 the weather, " the dramatic element in 



