Late One Morning, - A Late Start Is Inevitable Here,
- Accompanied By A Cavalcade, We Crossed The River By The Rope
Ferry,
and trotted down the pretty road, elevated above the stream and
tree-shaded, offering always charming glimpses of swift
Water and
overhanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the other side of
the river), to Paint Rock, - six miles. This Paint Rock is a naked
precipice by the roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large
local reputation. It is said that its face shows painting done by
the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can read. On this bold,
crumbling cliff, innumerable visitors have written their names. We
stared at it a good while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics,
but could see nothing except iron stains. Round the corner is a
farmhouse and place of call for visitors, a neat cottage, with a
display of shells and minerals and flower-pots; and here we turned
north crossed the little stream called Paint River, the only clear
water we had seen in a month, passed into the State of Tennessee, and
by a gentle ascent climbed Paint Mountain. The open forest road,
with the murmur of the stream below, was delightfully exhilarating,
and as we rose the prospect opened, - the lovely valley below, Bald
Mountains behind us, and the Butt Mountains rising as we came over
the ridge.
Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men,
knew anything of the route, or could give us any information of the
country beyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the country and the
farms decidedly improved, - apple-trees and a grapevine now and then.
A ride of eight miles brought us to Waddle's, hungry and disposed to
receive hospitality. We passed by an old farm building to a new
two-storied, gayly painted house on a hill. We were deceived by
appearances. The new house, with a new couple in it, had nothing to
offer us except some buttermilk. Why should anybody be obliged to
feed roving strangers? As to our horses, the young woman with a baby
in her arms declared,
"We've got nothing for stock but roughness; perhaps you can get
something at the other house."
"Roughness," we found out at the other house, meant hay in this
region. We procured for the horses a light meal of green oats, and
for our own dinner we drank at the brook and the Professor produced a
few sonnets. On this sustaining repast we fared on nearly twelve
miles farther, through a rolling, good farming country, offering
little for comment, in search of a night's lodging with one of the
brothers Snap. But one brother declined our company on the plea that
his wife was sick, and the other because his wife lived in
Greenville, and we found ourselves as dusk came on without shelter in
a tavernless land. Between the two refusals we enjoyed the most
picturesque bit of scenery of the day, at the crossing of Camp Creek,
a swift little stream, that swirled round under the ledge of bold
rocks before the ford.
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