The country is full of springs and streams, and between Abingdon and Egger's is only one (small) bridge.In a region with scarcely any level land or intervale, farmers are at a disadvantage.All along the road we saw nothing but mean shanties, generally of logs, with now and then a decent one-story frame, and the people looked miserably poor.
As we picked our way along up the Laurel, obliged for the most part to ride single-file, or as the Professor expressed it,"Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one,"we gathered information about Egger's from the infrequent hovels on the road, which inflamed our imaginations.Egger was the thriving man of the region, and lived in style in a big brick house.We began to feel a doubt that Egger would take us in, and so much did his brick magnificence impress us that we regretted we had not brought apparel fit for the society we were about to enter.
It was half-past six, and we were tired and hungry, when the domain of Egger towered in sight,--a gaunt, two-story structure of raw brick, unfinished, standing in a narrow intervale.We rode up to the gate, and asked a man who sat in the front-door porch if this was Egger's, and if we could be accommodated for the night.The man, without moving, allowed that it was Egger's, and that we could probably stay there.This person, however, exhibited so much indifference to our company, he was such a hairy, unkempt man, and carried on face, hands, and clothes so much more of the soil of the region than a prudent proprietor would divert from raising corn, that we set him aside as a poor relation, and asked for Mr.Egger.But the man, still without the least hospitable stir, admitted that that was the name he went by, and at length advised us to "lite" and hitch our horses, and sit on the porch with him and enjoy the cool of the evening.The horses would be put up by and by, and in fact things generally would come round some time.This turned out to be the easy way of the country.Mr.Egger was far from being inhospitable, but was in no hurry, and never had been in a hurry.He was not exactly a gentleman of the old school.He was better than that.He dated from the time when there were no schools at all, and he lived in that placid world which is without information and ideas.Mr.Egger showed his superiority by a total lack of curiosity about any other world.
This brick house, magnificent by comparison with other dwellings in this country, seemed to us, on nearer acquaintance, only a thin, crude shell of a house, half unfinished, with bare rooms, the plastering already discolored.In point of furnishing it had not yet reached the "God bless our Home" stage in crewel.In the narrow meadow, a strip of vivid green south of the house, ran a little stream, fed by a copious spring, and over it was built the inevitable spring-house.A post, driven into the bank by the stream, supported a tin wash-basin, and here we performed our ablutions.The traveler gets to like this freedom and primitive luxury.
The farm of Egger produces corn, wheat, grass, and sheep; it is a good enough farm, but most of it lies at an angle of thirty-five to forty degrees.The ridge back of the house, planted in corn, was as steep as the roof of his dwelling.It seemed incredible that it ever could have been plowed, but the proprietor assured us that it was plowed with mules, and I judged that the harvesting must be done by squirrels.The soil is good enough, if it would stay in place, but all the hillsides are seamed with gullies.The discolored state of the streams was accounted for as soon as we saw this cultivated land.
No sooner is the land cleared of trees and broken up than it begins to wash.We saw more of this later, especially in North Carolina, where we encountered no stream of water that was not muddy, and saw no cultivated ground that was not washed.The process of denudation is going on rapidly wherever the original forests are girdled (a common way of preparing for crops), or cut away.
As the time passed and there was no sign of supper, the question became a burning one, and we went to explore the kitchen.No sign of it there.No fire in the stove, nothing cooked in the house, of course.Mrs.Egger and her comely young barefooted daughter had still the milking to attend to, and supper must wait for the other chores.It seemed easier to be Mr.Egger, in this state of existence, and sit on the front porch and meditate on the price of mules and the prospect of a crop, than to be Mrs.Egger, whose work was not limited from sun to sun; who had, in fact, a day's work to do after the men-folks had knocked off; whose chances of neighborhood gossip were scanty, whose amusements were confined to a religious meeting once a fortnight.Good, honest people these, not unduly puffed up by the brick house, grubbing away year in and year out.
Yes, the young girl said, there was a neighborhood party, now and then, in the winter.What a price to pay for mere life!
Long before supper was ready, nearly nine o'clock, we had almost lost interest in it.Meantime two other guests had arrived, a couple of drovers from North Carolina, who brought into the circle--by this time a wood-fire had been kindled in the sitting-room, which contained a bed, an almanac, and some old copies of a newspaper--a rich flavor of cattle, and talk of the price of steers.As to politics, although a presidential campaign was raging, there was scarcely an echo of it here.This was Johnson County, Tennessee, a strong Republican county but dog-gone it, says Mr.Egger, it's no use to vote; our votes are overborne by the rest of the State.Yes, they'd got a Republican member of Congress,--he'd heard his name, but he'd forgotten it.The drover said he'd heard it also, but he didn't take much interest in such things, though he wasn't any Republican.
Parties is pretty much all for office, both agreed.Even the Professor, who was traveling in the interest of Reform, couldn't wake up a discussion out of such a state of mind.
