The discussion was not long, and it was brought to a cheerful, demoralized end by the approach of the trolley, into which, regardless of right or wrong, we climbed with alacrity, not to alight till not only Elmira was left behind, but more weary suburbs, too, on the other side.

That night, as old travellers phrase it, we lay at Waverly, on the frontier of Pennsylvania, a sad, dirty little town, grotesquely belying its romantic name, and only surpassed in squalor by the classically named Athens--beware, reader, of American towns named out of classical dictionaries! Here, however, our wanderings in the brick-and-mortar wilderness were to end, for by a long, romantic, old, covered bridge we crossed the Chemung River, and there once more, on the other side, was Nature, lovelier than ever, awaiting us.

Not Dante, when he emerged from Hades and again beheld the stars, drew deeper breaths of escape than we, thus escaping from--Athens! And soon we were to meet the Susquehanna--beautiful, broad-bosomed name, that has always haunted my imagination like the name of some beautiful savage princess--_La belle sauvage_.

Susquehanna! What a southern opulence in the soft, seductive syllables! Yes, soon we were to meet the Susquehanna.

Nor had we long to wait, and little did we suspect what our meeting with that beautiful river was to mean.
The Chemung, on whose east bank we were now walking, seemed a noble enough river, very broad and all the more picturesque for being shallow with the Summer drought; and its shining reaches and wooded banks lifted up our hearts.