160 A WEEK ON WALBEN'S BIDGE. 



Meanwhile I had been to the Brow, where 

 I had sat for an hour or more on the edge 

 of the mountain, gazing down upon the 

 world. The sky was clouded, but here and 

 there were fugitive patches of sunshine, now 

 on Missionary Ridge, now on the river, now 

 glorifying the smoke of the city. Southward, 

 just across the valley and over Chattanooga, 

 was Lookout Mountain ; eastward stretched 

 Missionary Ridge, with many higher hills 

 behind it; and more to the north, and far 

 in the distance, loomed the Great Smoky 

 Mountains, in all respects true to their 

 name. The valley at my feet was beautiful 

 beyond words : green forests interspersed 

 with green clearings, lonely cabins, and bare 

 fields of red earth. At the north, Wal- 

 den's Ridge made a turn eastward, narrowing 

 the valley, but without ending it. Chimney 

 swifts were cackling merrily, and the air was 

 full of the hum of seventeen-year locusts, — 

 miles and miles of continuous sound. From 

 somewhere far below rose the tinkle of cow- 

 bells. Even on that cloudy and smoky day 

 it was a glorious landscape ; but it pleased 

 me afterward to remember that the eye re- 

 turned of itself again and again to a stretch 



