.--Many of the trees are already in full
leaf. The trillium is fading. We are in the full tide of early
summer, up here in the mountains, and our long journey of six weeks
is southward and toward the plain. The lower Ohio may soon be a
bake-oven, and the middle of June will be upon us before far-away
Cairo is reached. It behooves us to be up and doing. The river,
flowing by our door, is an ever-pressing invitation to be onward; it
stops not for Sunday, nor ever stops--and why should we, mere drift
upon the passing tide?

There was a smart thunder-shower during breakfast, followed by a cool,
cloudy morning. At eleven o'clock Pilgrim was laden. A south-eastern
breeze ruffled the waters of the Yough, and for the first time the
Doctor ordered up the sail, with W---- at the sheet. It was not long
before Pilgrim had the water "singing at her prow." With a rush, we
flew past the factories, the house-boats, and the shabby street-ends
of McKeesport, out into the Monongahela, where, luckily, the wind
still held.

At McKeesport, the hills on the right are of a relatively low
altitude, smooth and well rounded. It was here that Braddock, in his
slow progress toward Fort Duquesne, first crossed the Monongahela,
to the wide, level bottom on the left bank. He had found the inner
country to the right of the river and below the Yough too rough and
hilly for his march, hence had turned back toward the Monongahela,
fording the river to take advantage of the less difficult bottom. Some
four miles below this first crossing, hills reapproach the left
bank, till the bottom ceases; the right thenceforth becomes the
more favorable side for marching. With great pomp, he recrossed the
Monongahela just below the point where Turtle Creek enters from
the east. Within a hillside ravine, but a hundred yards inland,
the brilliant column fell into an ambuscade of Indians and French
half-breeds, suffering that heart-sickening defeat which will ever
live as one of the most tragic events in American history.

The noisy iron-manufacturing town of Braddock now occupies the site of
Braddock's defeat. Not far from the old ford stretches the great
dam of Lock No. 2, which we portaged, with the usual difficulties of
steep, stony banks. Braddock is but eight miles across country from
Pittsburg, although twelve by river. We have, all the way down, an
almost constant succession of iron and steel-making towns, chief among
them Homestead, on the left bank, seven m