We were riding along the west fork of the Laurel, distinguished locally as Three Top Creek,--or, rather, we were riding in it, crossing it thirty-one times within six miles; a charming wood (and water) road, under the shade of fine trees with the rhododendron illuminating the way, gleaming in the forest and reflected in the stream, all the ten miles to Elk Cross Roads, our next destination.
We had heard a great deal about Elk Cross Roads; it was on the map, it was down in the itinerary furnished by a member of the Coast Survey.We looked forward to it as a sweet place of repose from the noontide heat.Alas! Elk Cross Roads is a dirty grocery store, encumbered with dry-goods boxes, fly-blown goods, flies, loafers.In reply to our inquiry we were told that they had nothing to eat, for us, and not a grain of feed for the horses.But there was a man a mile farther on, who was well to do and had stores of food,--old man Tatern would treat us in bang-up style.The difficulty of getting feed for the horses was chronic all through the journey.The last corn crop had failed, the new oats and corn had not come in, and the country was literally barren.We had noticed all along that the hens were taking a vacation, and that chickens were not put forward as an article of diet.
We were unable, when we reached the residence of old man Tatem, to imagine how the local superstition of his wealth arose.His house is of logs, with two rooms, a kitchen and a spare room, with a low loft accessible by a ladder at the side of the chimney.The chimney is a huge construction of stone, separating the two parts of the house; in fact, the chimney was built first, apparently, and the two rooms were then built against it.The proprietor sat in a little railed veranda.These Southern verandas give an air to the meanest dwelling, and they are much used; the family sit here, and here are the washbasin and pail (which is filled from the neighboring spring-house), and the row of milk-pans.The old man Tatern did not welcome us with enthusiasm; he had no corn,--these were hard times.He looked like hard times, grizzled times, dirty times.It seemed time out of mind since he had seen comb or razor, and although the lovely New River, along which we had ridden to his house,--a broad, inviting stream,--was in sight across the meadow, there was no evidence that he had ever made acquaintance with its cleansing waters.As to corn, the necessities of the case and pay being dwelt on, perhaps he could find a dozen ears.A dozen small cars he did find, and we trust that the horses found them.
We took a family dinner with old man Tatern in the kitchen, where there was a bed and a stove,--a meal that the host seemed to enjoy, but which we could not make much of, except the milk; that was good.
A painful meal, on the whole, owing to the presence in the room of a grown-up daughter with a graveyard cough, without physician or medicine, or comforts.Poor girl! just dying of "a misery."In the spare room were two beds; the walls were decorated with the gay-colored pictures of patent-medicine advertisements--a favorite art adornment of the region; and a pile of ancient illustrated papers with the usual patent-office report, the thoughtful gift of the member for the district.The old man takes in the "Blue Ridge Baptist," a journal which we found largely taken up with the experiences of its editor on his journeys roundabout in search of subscribers.This newspaper was the sole communication of the family with the world at large, but the old man thought he should stop it,--he did n't seem to get the worth of his money out of it.And old man Tatem was a thrifty and provident man.On the hearth in this best room--as ornaments or memento mori were a couple of marble gravestones, a short headstone and foot-stone, mounted on bases and ready for use, except the lettering.These may not have been so mournful and significant as they looked, nor the evidence of simple, humble faith; they may have been taken for debt.But as parlor ornaments they had a fascination which we could not escape.
It was while we were bathing in the New River, that afternoon, and meditating on the grim, unrelieved sort of life of our host, that the Professor said, "judging by the face of the 'Blue Ridge Baptist,' he will charge us smartly for the few nubbins of corn and the milk."The face did not deceive us; the charge was one dollar.At this rate it would have broken us to have tarried with old man Tatem (perhaps he is not old, but that is the name he goes by) over night.
It was a hot afternoon, and it needed some courage to mount and climb the sandy hill leading us away from the corn-crib of Tatem.But we entered almost immediately into fine stretches of forest, and rode under the shade of great oaks.The way, which began by the New River, soon led us over the hills to the higher levels of Watauga County.So far on our journey we had been hemmed in by low hills, and without any distant or mountain outlooks.The excessive heat seemed out of place at the elevation of over two thousand feet, on which we were traveling.Boone, the county seat of Watauga County, was our destination, and, ever since morning, the guideboards and the trend of the roads had notified us that everything in this region tends towards Boone as a center of interest.The simple ingenuity of some of the guide-boards impressed us.If, on coming to a fork, the traveler was to turn to the right, the sign read,To BOONE 10 M.
