freshets, the sudden breaking-up of great jams of logs, and the
drowning of men who were engulfed in the dark whirlpool below the
rapids.

Caravans, with menageries of wild beasts, crossed the bridge now
every year. An infuriated elephant lifted the side of the old
Edgewood Tavern barn, and the wild laughter of the roistering
rum-drinkers who were tantalizing the animals floated down to the
river's edge. The roar of a lion, tearing and chewing the arm of
one of the bystanders, and the cheers of the throng when a plucky
captain of the local militia thrust a stake down the beast's
throat,--these sounds displaced the former war-whoop of the
Indians and the ring of the axe in the virgin forests along the
shores.

There were days, and moonlight nights, too, when strange sights
and sounds of quite another nature could have been noted by the
river as it flowed under the bridge that united the two little
villages.

Issuing from the door of the Riverboro Town House, and winding
down the hill, through the long row of teams and carriages that
lined the roadside, came a procession of singing men and singing
women. Convinced of sin, but entranced with promised pardon;
spiritually intoxicated by the glowing eloquence of the
latter-day prophet they were worshipping, the band of
"Cochranites "marched down the dusty road and across the bridge,
dancing, swaying, waving handkerchiefs, and shouting hosannas.

God watched, and listened, knowing that there would be other