LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 55 



struck with the almost total absence of 

 mosses, and the dry, stony character of the 

 soil, a novel and not altogether pleasing 

 feature in the eyes of a man accustomed to 

 the mountain forests of New England, where 

 mosses cover every boulder, stump, and 

 fallen log, while the feet sink into sphagnum 

 as into the softest of carpets. 



Comfortable lounging-places continually 

 invited me to linger, and at last I sat down 

 under a chestnut oak, with a big broken- 

 barked tupelo directly before me. Over the 

 top of a neighboring boulder a lizard leaned 

 in a praying attitude and gazed upon the 

 intruder. Once in a while some loud-voiced 

 tree-frog, as I suppose, uttered a grating cry. 

 A blue-gray gnatcatcher was complaining, 

 snarling, I might have said; a red-eye, an 

 indigo-bird, a field sparrow, and a Carolina 

 wren took turns in singing; and a sudden 

 chat threw himself into the air, quite un- 

 announced, and, with ludicrous teetering 

 motions, flew into the tupelo and eyed me 

 saucily. A few minutes later, a single ci- 

 cada (seventeen-year locust) followed him. 

 With my glass I could see its monstrous red 

 eyes and the orange edge of its wing. It 



