A WEEK ON WALDEN'S BIDGE. 181 



parable, and said, " The pig '11 be all right, 

 if the folks up at the hotel don't shoot him." 

 His tone and look were intended to be 

 deeply significant. " Oh, I know you," they 

 implied: "you are up at the hotel, where 

 they threaten to shoot white folks." 



For my last afternoon — wars and rumors 

 of wars long since forgotten — I went to the 

 place that had pleased me first, the valley 

 of Falling Water Creek. The cross-vine on 

 the dead hemlock had by this time dropped 

 the greater part of its bells, but even yet 

 many were hanging from the uppermost 

 branches. The rhododendron was still at 

 the height of its splendor. All the gardens 

 were nothing to it, I said to myself. Cross- 

 ing the creek on the log, and the branch on 

 stepping-stones, I went to quench my thirst 

 at the Marshall Spring, which once had a 

 cabin beside it, and frequent visitors, but 

 now was clogged with fallen leaves and 

 seemingly abandoned. It was perhaps more 

 beautiful so. Directly behind it rose a steep 

 bank, and in front stood an oak and a 

 maple, the latter leaning toward it and form- 

 ing a pointed arch, — a worthy entrance. 

 Mossy stones walled it in, and ferns grew 



