IT WAS morning on the mountain. Oh ! You who live in town, do you know what morning means ? When the night rolls away and reveals the world, have you ever beheld the scene new-set, new-set albeit the same was spread before your eyes yesterday, and for countless yesterdays ?

Dimly conscious that day was breaking, I struggled to waken, I was very tired, and sleep would not depart from my eyes. Although I had promised myself the pleasure of watching the dawn, it now needed more than my love of nature to call me forth. This want was soon supplied. About our door was heard the squealing and grunting of swine, accompanied by the yelping of dogs. Sleep was no longer possible, and we went out into the new day. In the street a sorry collection of porkers was gathered, waiting for their morning meal. They were of the native, razor-back variety - gaunt, long-limbed and long-jawed. For each pig there was at least one of the omnipresent yellow dogs, long of body and short of limb. The poverty of a Tennessee mountaineer may often be reckoned in direct proportion to the number of his dogs - the poorer the man the more curs about him.

The town we saw to be literally "founded upon a rock." We saw the out-cropping - the western edge of the upper strata of the coal measures. We trod immediately upon the rough surface of the sandstone conglomerate ; such scant soil as there was above it was only the sand worn from the rock by attrition, by the lapse of time, by the processes of nature.

This is the county-town. It is almost as old as the century, and looks as though it might never have changed since first it dropped down there, to live or die as chance might decree. In the center stands the brick court-house, plain, square, homely, weather-stained, dilapidated. Around three sides of the square are small, weather-stained log and frame buildings. Beyond we note some small clearings where the timber has been cut for fuel, and where such soil as there is, is cultivated to produce a little corn and potatoes. Beyond these patches, and always within a stone's throw from the "square" are the woods. What reason the people have for existing, I found it hard to see.

I watched the awakening of the village with no little interest. First a couple of children came out and began to play in the sand, then the owner of the hogs brought a basket of corn and fed them in front of the temple of justice. There was just enough corn to whet their appetites for more, and the squealing went on all the more shrilly thereafter. A man came out with some rats in a trap, and the dogs began to battle for them. The one merchant opened the door of his store and sat down to wait for customers, who, apparently, never came. The postmaster bustled about and sent a boy galloping off, thirty miles to the railway, with a lank mail bag. The one lawyer went over to the court-house and resumed his examination of land-titles - the only genuinely flourishing industry of the village.

This was the boyhood home of a 'noted American humorist, and some of his best characters are said to be faithful portraits of the natives hereabouts. A special reminder is to be found of him in the records of the present court in the title of a land claim now in dispute, - "The Gilded Age'* tract. This tract comprises some 50,000 acres of valuable timber land. It was originally included, or was supposed to have been included, in an old survey and grant, which gave as its eastern limit and boundary "the foot of the mountain and thence northward with the meanders thereof." In the course of time another grant was issued by the State, for a tract of land which was to run over the mountain from the east, and have as its western boundary "the foot of the mountain and thence southward with the meanders thereof".

As the land became more valuable, with the nearer approach of railroads and civilization, it became more and more difficult to precisely locate "the foot of the mountain," and to define its "meanders".

Under the careful nursing of vigilant attorneys, the dispute waxed hotter and hotter and the "foot" grew apace, until it covered this 50,000 acres. "There's millions in it," for the lawyers.

I did not find the village attractive enough to warrant a longer stay, so when the Colonel was ready to retrace his steps, I said farewell, and went forward alone. At the " settlement" the veneering of civilization was just enough to be distasteful. I preferred the mountain, pure and simple.

Bearing in mind Thoreau's saying, that "they are not true travelers whose legs hang dangling the while," I began "to wear away the soles of my shoes," as he enjoins, upon the mountain paths. The traveler who journeys on horseback learns much that must be missed by one who goes by rail; but only to such as go on foot is granted that infinite leisure that the acquisition of knowledge demands. To start upon an unknown road, on foot, careless of the end, and of time; stopping to rest when one tires, to eat where one finds food, to sleep where a bed is offered; to pause and listen to the carol of a bird, to the murmuring brook, to the whispering wind; to have leisure to note the clouds in the sky, the flowers under foot, the tints in the foliage of the trees; to pause for speech with them who are slow of words; to go into the homes of the people and see their lives - this is to travel, and to learn.

The dignity of the mountaineer is a marked quality, but it is not offensive or presuming. It can best be characterized by the prefix "gentle," but it is very genuine in its way; and the term gentle, foreign as it may seem to certain of their traits and to individual characters, conveys better than any other word, my impression of them as a whole. There is a pathos, too, in lives that are only an unvarying round of eventless monotony. Yet they are contented, for they know little of the great world, and have few ambitions.

They are ardently religious, and in the log meeting house, in the heart of the wilderness, will often remain together for hours - preaching, praying and singing, alternating with intermissions for eating and drinking. To these meetings the people gather for many miles about; the preacher is usually as illiterate as any, but being gifted "with the power of words " he can continue his exhortations almost indefinitely. The popular style of delivery is a peculiar, sing-song, nasal drawl, interspersed with many "ahs!" and an intermittent "sniffle" (if so inelegant a word may be permitted) which becomes very rasping to the unaccustomed hearer.