Persons who were interested in preserving the original Cherokee names became anxious over the safety of the name _Chickamauga Dam_. Through the columns of _The Chattanooga News_ a protest was registered daily for about a week. The beginning interview came from the historian of the University of Chattanooga, who was strongly opposed to changing the name to the _McReynolds’ Dam_, in honor of Chattanooga’s Congressman. On succeeding days, similar protests were published from Chattanooga’s leading citizens, each of them giving logical reasons for the retention of the name _Chickamauga_. At the close of the series of interviews the public had been thoroughly awakened to the importance of holding on to this beautiful historical name which had been given to some of this region’s loveliest streams by its aborigines. Irvin Cobb once declared that the word _Chattanooga_ was the most beautiful of any word he knew in the English language. Could not the well known humorist writer also have made the same assertion about the word Chickamauga? To climax the movement to hold on to the historical name, the Chickamauga Chapter of the DAR of Chattanooga, at the last moment when the bill was up for its final reading, the members voted unanimously for the retention of the name Chickamauga. When Congressman S. D. McReynolds received notice of its action, he withdrew his name, and the name _Chickamauga Dam_ was thereby saved for posterity. [Illustration: Old Grist Mill at Brainerd Mission as seen from Chickamauga Town.] CHICKAMAUGA LAKE Where farmers’ cattle grazed on pasture lands, The fishes feed; the clumsy turtles swim Where once the corn crops grew; the frog expands His throat, proud of the pleasure given him; This lake now slips its fingertips between A hundred little pebbled hills, and all Are dressed in tender grass and leaves of green, With here and there an islet like a ball Half sunken in a pool, yet floating on To reach some distant shore. The swallows swing Their airplanes down and wet their beaks at dawn, And men awake to hear the thrushes sing. When day grows old and sun is westward bound, They stretch the shadowed trees across the lake, And duck and loon and gull and teal have found A place which fishermen will not forsake; And when the moon receives its silvered crown, The waters, like magicians, reach into The sky and pull the stars and planets down Without their heat, void of the distant blue; Then leave them floating in their watered graves, And as the boat speeds on, the pilot sees Amidst the rippled and discordant waves, Reflections broken by realities.