A WEEK ON WALDEN'S BIDGE. 175 



ings had been exchanged. I believe, in my 

 innocence, I had always looked upon that 

 word as an invention of story-writers. 



Somewhere in this neighborhood we 

 traversed a pine wood, in which my first 

 Walden pine warbler was trilling. Then, 

 for some miles, we drove along the Brow, 

 with the glory of the world — valley, river, 

 and mountain — outspread before us, and 

 the Great Smokies looming in the back- 

 ground, barely visible through the haze. 

 For seven miles, I was told, one could drive 

 along that mountain rim. Surely the city 

 of Chattanooga is happy in its suburbs. 

 Here were many cottages, the greater num- 

 ber as yet unopened ; and not far beyond 

 the one under the piazza of which I had 

 weathered the thunderstorm of the day be- 

 fore, the road entered the forest again. 

 Then, as the way grew more and more diffi- 

 cult, we left the horse behind us, and by 

 and by came to a footpath. This brought us 

 at last to Falling Water Fall, where Little 

 Falling Water — after threading the swamp 

 and passing Mabbitt's Spring, as before 

 described — tumbles over a precipice which 

 my companion, with his surveyor's eye, esti- 



