AN AFTERNOON BY THE BIVEE. Ill 



kind. For auglit that my ear could detect, 

 they might be common toads uttering their 

 mysterious, discordant midsummer screams 

 in full chorus. Here were more indigo-birds, 

 with red-eyes, white-eyes, lisping black-poll 

 warblers, redstarts, a yellow-billed cuckoo 

 (furtive as ever, like a bird with an evil 

 conscience), catbirds, a thrasher, a veery in 

 song (a luxury in these parts), orchard ori- 

 oles, goldfinches, and chippers. A bluebird 

 was gathering straws, and a carrion crow, 

 one of two seen in Tennessee, was soaring- 

 high over the river. 



The "pavilion," at the terminus of the 

 car route, was deserted, and I sat on the 

 piazza enjoying the really beautiful prospect 

 — the river, the woods, and the cultivated 

 fields. The land hereabout was all in the 

 market. In truth, the selling of building 

 lots seemed to be one of the principal in- 

 dustries of Chattanooga ; and I was not 

 surprised to find the good-humored young 

 fellow behind the counter — with its usual 

 appetizing display of cigars, drinks, and 

 confectionery — full of the glories and im- 

 minent possibilities of this particular " sub- 

 urb." He believed in the river. Folks 



