A FORTNIGHT IN A PALACE OF 

 REEDS. 



WHEN you reach the top of the bold hill 

 known as Cedar Loaf, you may see the Coo- 

 sawattee River winding away, in a direction 

 diagonal to the length of the valley below, 

 sparkling and rippling between its dense 

 fringes of canebrake. There are broad rifts 

 in the forests of pine, hickory, oak and tulip, 

 through which shine the grassy glades or min- 

 iature prairies, peculiar to the North Georgia 

 region. The old Indian Ford, from which the 

 serpentine trail of the Cherokees used to 

 wriggle away like a snake, is still visible, its 

 steep approaches having somewhat the ap- 

 pearance of abandoned otter-slides. Nowhere 

 in the world, I believe, can such beautiful fo- 

 liage be found as that wherewith the forests 

 of this wild region bedecks itself in April. 

 The young hickory trees spread out marvellous 

 leaves, more than a span in width, and the yel- 

 low tulip exaggerates both foliage and flowers. 

 The dogwood and sour-gum, the red-oak, the 

 maple and the chestnut, the cherry, the sasa- 

 fras and the lovely' sweet-gum all flourish in 

 fullest luxury of life and color. Wild flowers, 

 too, of almost endless varieties, leap into per- 

 fect blossom early in spring along every hill 

 slope and in every valley, pocket, and ravine. 



Not far from Indian Ford stood the Palace 

 of Reeds, built by Nature's own hand, on a 

 low bluff of the river's east bank. We found 



