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.
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