AT NATURAL BRIDGE 217 



In one place, as I stooped to examine a 

 boulder covered thickly with the tiny walk- 

 ing fern, of which the ravine contains a 

 great abundance, — faded, ill conditioned, 

 and homely, but curious, and, better still, a 

 stranger, — I found the ground littered with 

 bright yellowish magnolia petals ; and if I 

 looked into the sky for a passing bird, it 

 was almost as likely as not that I should 

 find myself looking through the branches of 

 a soaring tulip-tree, — a piece of magnifi- 

 cence that is one of the most constant of my 

 Alleghanian admirations. All the upper 

 part of the glen is pervaded by a dull rum- 

 bling or moaning sound, — the voice of Lost 

 River, out of which the tourist is supposed 

 to have drunk at the only point where it 

 shows itself (and there only to those who 

 look for it), a quarter of a mile back. An- 

 other all-pervasive thing is the wholesome 

 fragrance of arbor-vitae. It is fitting, surely, 

 that the tree of life should be growing in 

 this floral paradise. There are few places, 

 I imagine, where it flourishes better. 



On my way back toward the bridge I dis- 

 covered, as was to be expected, many things 

 that had been overlooked on my way out ; 



