The Devil Himself Could Not Invent
Any Machine Calculated To Act On The Nerves Of A Horse Like This.
Jack Took One Look And Then Dashed Into The Woods, Scraping Off His
Rider's Hat But Did Not Succeed In Getting Rid Of His Burden Or
Knocking Down Any Trees.
Union, on the railway, is the forlornest of little villages, with
some three hundred inhabitants and a forlorn hotel, kept by an
ex-stage-driver.
The village, which lies on the Holston, has no
drinking-water in it nor enterprise enough to bring it in; not a well
nor a spring in its limits; and for drinking-water everybody crosses
the river to a spring on the other side. A considerable part of the
labor of the town is fetching water over the bridge. On a hill
overlooking the village is a big, pretentious brick house, with a
tower, the furniture of which is an object of wonder to those who
have seen it. It belonged to the late Mrs. Stover, daughter of
Andrew Johnson. The whole family of the ex-President have departed
this world, but his memory is still green in this region, where he
was almost worshiped - so the people say in speaking of him.
Forlorn as was the hotel at Union, the landlord's daughters were
beginning to draw the lines in rural refinement. One of them had
been at school in Abingdon. Another, a mature young lady of fifteen,
who waited on the table, in the leisure after supper asked the Friend
for a light for her cigarette, which she had deftly rolled.
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