Library of
The University of North Carolina
COLLECTION OF
NORTH CAROLINIANA
ENDOWED BY
JOHN SPRUNT HILL
of the Class of 1889
)<
(^ %v"i>- W ^*^"^^
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL
00017475554
r
This BOOK may be kept out TWO
WEEKS ONLY, and is subject to a fine
of FIVE CENTS a day thereafter. It was
taken out on the day indicated below:
8IVIar'29l\('
--Y— ---_
^t(oa
GENA
of the
APPALACHIANS
By
CLARENCE MONROE WALLIN
Cochrane Publishing Company
Tribune Building
New York
1910
Copyright, 1910, by
Clarence Monroe Wallin
/
To Alma, my wife, and the thousands of other noble
daughters of the great Appalachian country.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
If, in the lines of this humble narrative, the reader
should find anything of truth; anything of uplift; any-
thing of human life, then the author shall have been fully
repaid for the time employed in writing it.
Clarence Monroe Wallin.
Gena of the Appalachians
CHAPTER I
The Burial of Lucky Joe
It was late in the afternoon of a cold winter's day
when they sent for him to go and perform the last sad
rites at the burial of Lucky Joe.
Lucky Joe had outstripped the law in his crimes for
more than forty years— hence the people had well dubbed
him ''Lucky." For more than three decades his name
had been the synonym of dread and fear among the
people of the hills. He had at length whipped them into
granting him whatever he exacted of them, whether the
thing in itself was right or wrong. But one memorable
day, the tardy finger of the law apprehended him, and
he stood up before the bar of Justice and heard the
court pronounce, "Joseph Filson, guilty!" Quickly he
was ushered away to the penitentiary — down to a South-
ern jail and to hard and endless toil for the remainder
of his life. The gates of the prison closed and locked
their iron jaws behind him: his keeper P.dmonished him
to be obedient, and he immediately chose to work at the
blacksmith's forge. Day after day, he swung the sledge
in silence. Then the days crowded into months and into
years, but he pounded away at the anvil unmindful of
the end. Finally death came and knocked at the door
of his narrow cell and took him away.
The news of the great outlaw's death flashed back to
the hills, and horse and rider took up the message and
8 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
sped over the peaks and down into the narrow gorges to
tell the mountain folk of the end. Many a mountain
mother and son ran out to the roadside to meet the rider,
and received the news with gladness. Men and boys
gathered in groups about the forks of the roads and
doubted that it could be true. But, when the remains
were forwarded to the railroad station nearest the moun-
tain home, doubt and distrust gave way to the evidence,
and all were satisfied.
"No, he wouldn't come," said the man at the gate. He
sat there, on his horse and fumbled at the horn of his
saddle for more than a minute, all the while trying to find
words with which to make further known his mission.
"I say, thet we took 'im to the schoolhouse yisterday.
but the preacher wouldn't come. Don't think thet he
wanted to come nohow, cause you see, Lucky wuz alius
a purty bad man. But we've brot 'im back to the school
house today, an' we want to put 'im away nice, an' as
we knowed that you wuz here, we'd like to git you to
come. We knowed thet you wuz not a preacher, but thet
you wuz a kinder public Sunday-school speaker — an' we
want to put 'im away nice — an' like to git you to come."
Paul Waffington saddled his horse and led him out
into the deep snow, mounted, and followed the stranger
out into the storm. The way was dangerous, but the
two men picked their way along the mountain pass as
best they could. The roar and the fury of the storm
increased as they went, and the cold wind cut like the
blade of a knife. Many times they were forced to lie
down in the saddle with their heads against their horses'
necks to protect themselves from the cutting sleet and
driving snow.
True enough, the man had said at the gate that Paul
Waffington was not a preacher. Nor was he engaged
in any preparations to that end. But choosing to re-
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 9
main a layman, the Sunday-schcol and the children were
the direct objects of his Christian activities/ But when
some human heart was sore and duty called, he responded
without a murmur. Hence throughout the blinding storm
of this winter day he rode with the stranger to the burial
of Lucky Joe.
Despite the midwinter storm that was raging^ he found
the little school house overflowing with the people of the
hills. Great bunches of mountaineers stood about in
the deep snow, on the outside, while the house was
crowded to the door with thinly clad mothers bearing
in their arms their children. All had come, alike, to get
a glimpse of the face of the dead man whose name, to
them, had been born of destruction.
All the family were there. The two young sons sat
on the front seat with ruined hopes. The little daughter
was there alongside the brothers, clinging to them in
grief; mother was there by the side of the children, and
father was there — in the casket.
It was with great difficulty that Paul Waffington made
his way through the throng, to the front. It had not
been his lot to meet with Lucky Joe during his lifetime.
But now, as he approaches the platform, he turns and
looks into the casket. He beholds the face of an old
man — past sixty years — with pinched features and a
long^ white beard, with deep lines in his face that the
chisel of sin had hewn v/ith no uncertain hand.
With a warning to the living and words of comfort
for the bereaved the little service closed. For hours
during the blustering day strong men had worked at the
grave. Rough, uncouth mountaineers, many of whom
had hated and feared the dead man during his lifetime,
dug up the frozen earth and rock in perfect silence. It
mattered not to them now, whether he had been a friend
or an enemy during his lifetime, their respect now was
/
/
/
10 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
for the dead. The infalHble rule of the gentle people of
the Appalachian hills is to respect and honor the dead,
friend and foe alike, and to "let the dead rest in peace ;"
therefore, when their feet on this sad day became be-
numbed and stiff with cold, there was not a murmur from
any lip or rest from any stroke until the grave was
finished.
Kind hands laid away the remains of Lucky Joe.
Strong men braved the winter's gale and did their part
well. When the last shovelful of half snow and half
frozen earth had been placed upon the mound, the people
gathered themselves together by families and dispersed
in silence. Paul Waffington lingered and comforted the
mother and the two sons. Then he took the beautiful
hand of the little daughter Gena and held it as he ten-
derly spoke a few words to her. Her big blue eyes
looked up through the hot tears wishfully at him as he
finished :
"Good-bye, now. And be a good little girl. I will
come back, perhaps. And if — if I come back, I will come
to see you and bring you a pretty book. Don't forget
now. Good-bye," and he patted her on the head as he
turned to go.
The storm increased its fury and night came on as
death comes — swift and sure. Then, with a heavy heart
and a picture in his mind that shall grow plainer and
brighter as the years go by, Paul Wafifington mounted
his horse and went out into the night towards his own
place.
CHAPTER II
The Hamlet Blood Camp
Far away from the great press of population and the
busy throngs, in that part of the beautiful Appalachian
country, better known to the tourist as "The Land of the
Sky," in the very evening shadows of Mt. Mitchell itself,
the mighty Snake Hfts its domes. Standing alone and
a little above the surrounding mountains, with its sharp
peaks pushed up into the eternal blue a little more than
six thousand feet, it has for fifty years smiled down upon
a Httle hamlet at its base, and that hamlet is Blood Camp.
A dozen weatherbeaten houses, an unpretentious store,
post-office and blacksmith shop was Blood Camp fifty
years ago. With few changes, a few faces missing, and
a proportionate increase in the number of graves in the
little chestnut grove on the hill. Blood Camp is about
the same today. In fact, it had been freely circulated
*'out in the world," as Granny Green would say, by a
commercial traveler, that Blood Camp was finished. For
three decades he had traveled through the hamlet, and
during the time had failed to hear the sound of a saw or
a hammer, — hence it must be a '"finished" town.
However, that may be, there had been some wonderful
changes in the Hfe of Blood Camp since the death of
Lucky Joe. Immediately following the burial of Lucky
Joe, there had been organized the Sunday-school in
the school house by Waffington, who put the school in
the hands of a faithful few and departed. At the end
of the year, a freshly made grave that lay along by the
side of Lucky Joe's told the story of the mother's broken
12 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
heart and death. The two sons disposed of all the things
that could be found, saw their little sister Gena bound out
to old Jase Dillenburger, and departed for the West. Old
Granny Green, fortune-teller, conjurer and real local
paper, had recently been found dead near her pigsty.
Some of the careless ones of the neighborhood had said
that 'Tt was sint on 'er. Beca'se she kept bitin' dawgs,
an' dawged peoples hogs all 'er life."
Lately the constable with his deputies had come up
from the lower settlements and locked up the little store
by order of its creditors. The people considered this
the greatest blow of all to the neighborhood. For twenty
years the dilapidated store had stood on the state line,
half in Tennessee and half in North Carolina, with an
open door for all Blood Camp. The same lean and
hungry face of Slade Pemberton, the store-keeper, had
for a score of years looked across the box-lid counter,
and dispensed to the natives brown sugar, coffee, tobacco,
snuff and ''plow pints." The store had been the undis-
puted meeting-place for all Blood Camp for years.
Hence they found it hard to give up their old resort.
But since the officers of the law had closed and locked
the door, the fathers of Blood Camp resignedly retreated
to the shade of the big apple tree by the blacksmith shop,
there to play marbles and engage in idle talk on Satur-
days and Sundays. Old Jase Dillenburger had openly
rebelled against the closing of the store. He had been
the bosom companion of Lucky Joe, and together they
had "moonshined" at night and quietly disposed of the
whiskey at the store during the day, — hence the reason
that old Jase liked to linger around the store. In the
event that an officer from Tennessee tried to serve a
warrant on him, he went into the North Carolina end
of the store, and vici versa. But the new rendezvous
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 13
at the blacksmith shop was situated wholly in Tennessee,
which fact made old Jase a little uneasy.
''Don't like this changen bizness much," he growled,
as he came up under the apple tree and took his place
with the others. "Gimme a chaw terbacker, Fen Green,"
he continued. Then biting off a large piece from the
offered tobacco and handing it back he finished, "Heve
you put up any rocks to your mammy's grave yet, Fen?
You orter tend to it. Fen, 'fore you fergit it. Some
didn't like yer mammy — some sed she talked too much,
but I liked her — an' you ort to tend to it 'fore you fergit
it, Fen."
"Think maby I will, Jase," replied Fenton Green.
"How's Genie a-gitten along, Jase? How's she a-liken
her new home by this time?"
"Oh, she' nearly tickled to deth to git to live with me
an' Ann. You know, Fen, thet we haint got no children
nor nothin' to bother, an' she's smart too. Fen. Why,
she haint but thirteen agoin on fourteen, an' she can
bild fires, an' cut wood, an' milk, an' drag fodder, an'
cook — an' I left her a-cuttin' wood when I come down
here this mornin'. Oh, she's a fine gal, an' you look
sharp now. Fen. Of course she takes a few spells
a-cryin' an' awantin' to go to them dang brothers away
out yander in the West. But I knock that out with
about three licks, an' she's all right agin. FU make a
woman outen her, Fen, I will. Lucky an' her mammy
is both gone. Course we can't help thet. An' them two
boys is gone, an' Fm dang glad they aire. Genie will be
fourteen nex' spring, an' a mighty fine hand she'll make
next summer with a corn-hoe in my new-ground field
up yander under the peak. An' another thing. Fen.
She's got a mighty good home, ef I do say so myself."
The marble game ended. The heavy shadows of night
began to hang under the peaks of the mighty Snake, and
14 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
the crowd dispersed. After the others had gone, old
Jase arose, ran his huge fingers through his red mop,
stretched his great Hmbs, and looked up the mountain-
side towards his home. Then giving a last stroke to his
woolly red beard, he began the ascent.
Hundreds of nights had been spent by Lucky and old
Jase in the moonshining business. In a little secret cove
upon the side of the mighty Snake, Lucky would keep the
still going while old Jase with his rifle kept the watch
for the government raiders. But since the imprisonment
of Lucky Joe, and finally his death, the old still up in
the cove had been idle for a long time. There was not
another man in all Blood Camp that old Jase Dillen-
burger was willing to take in partnership. But the
smell of the mash in his nose and the longing for the
old business had led him lately to resume the operation
of the still alone.
This very night we see him slowly climbing up the
mountainside towards his home. The eye follows him
through the twilight as he slowly ascends. But before
the eye can wink again, he quickly turns to the left and
is lost in the woods. No human eye sees him as he
emerges from between two huge boulders just under the
dome of the mighty Snake, and drops down into the
little cove by the still. He begins his operations for
the night, moving about with apparent ease. Removing
the burlap covering from the still and brushing aside
the dead leaves which had been spread in heaps over
the coverings as a blind, he proceeded to build a fire
under the copper boiler with great satisfaction.
"Pale moon tonight," he drawled out as he walked
over to his gun, and again examining the magazine be-
fore replacing it against the oak. Taking a small keg
from the hollow of a moss-covered log, he pulled out
the corncob stopper, placed in the hole a funnel filled
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 15
with charcoal, and put it in place under the end of the
worm. Hours dragged slowly away as the still boiled.
Old Jase sat at t1:e base of a giant oak, with his gun
across his lap, staring into the furnace of fire, thinking,
reflecting. Just now he was reviewing some of the grew-
some scenes of the past that he knew so well. Yes, there
was the first hold-up that Lucky Joe and he had ever
made. It was the stage filled with summer guests for
Blowing Rock. How clear tonight is the voice of the
lady from Pennsylvania still ringing in his ears, as she
begged and pleaded with him — but he struck her down
with the others. Then the bullet that went through his
leg ! Drawing up his leg he put his hand on the scar for
the thousandth time as he growled out :
"Not well yit. Never has healed up jist right, noway.
Mighty sore and tender yit fur twenty year healin'" —
then he went on with his thoughts.
It was old Jase in the first place that had suggested
to Lucky Joe that they engage in the hazardous business
of moonshining whiskey. It was old Jase who laid the
plan for the hold-up of the stage. In fact, his cunning
brain had laid the plans for all the heinous crimes that
had been attributed to the Blood Camp folks. Yet the
fingers of the law had failed to apprehend him and take
hold upon him.
"Oh, well," he said, pulling himself up with the aid
of his gun and peering about, "Joe's gone. The ol'
woman's gone. Them dang boys is gone, an' I'm mighty
glad they aire. Nobody left to do nothin' but me. I'm
agettin' too ol' to steal corn an' pack up this mountain
to this still. I guess thet I'll have to quit — still'en."
He stood by the little furnace and looked long into the
dying fire, then continued, "Ef thet Genie wern't agettin
almost too big to manage in a bizness like still'en, I'd
make her keep the fire agoin' under this still every night
16 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
while I kept the watch. Ef she wuz jist a leetle younger,
ef she wuz jist a leetle younger! Well, she's mine by
law, an' I'll make'er do it yit. She's g^t- to do as I say —
I'll mak'er do it yit !"
He went to the side of the big oak, made a hasty ob-
serv^ation and saw that a new day was now at hand. He
hurriedly threw a little damp earth into the furnace to
make sure that the fire would go out, leplaced the cov-
erings on the still, returned the keg to its place in the
hollow log, and made for home.
CHAPTER III
The Gathering Clouds
Immediately after the burial of Lucky Joe, Paul
Waffington had seized the opportunity, when all Blood
Camp was seriously reflecting upon the frailities of hu-
man life, and organized a Sunday-school in the little
school house. The superintendent, Miss Emeline Hobbs,
had promised to faithfully stand by the little school and
keep the spark of life going until the end of the year,
when Paul Waffington had promised to return.
Miss Emeline Hobbs was rather large, with stringy
red hair and possessed a deep bass voice. She had been
born a cripple and walked on a wooden peg. But a kinder
or better human heart never beat than her's. During the
long winter and throughout the hot summer she, with a
fevv^ others, had kept the spark of life going in the little
school. Each Sunday morning she went to the little
school house, arranged the three classes, balanced her-
self on the wooden peg and proceeded in a profound way
to explain and "teach the Scriptures as I understand
them" to the little band.
Aside from the Sunday-school, there had been but one
other new thing that stirred Blood Camp during the
year, and that v/as the coming of the old fiddler. Yes,
he came. It was just about the middle of the summer,
or "corn-hoeing time," as Fen Green would say, that
the old fiddler came. Nobody seemed to know whence
he came nor did anybody care, so long as he would be
sociable with the "boys" and play "Old Dan Tucker,"
"Shortening in the Bread," "Cripple Creek," "Eliza
IS GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
Jane,," "Shady Grove" and a half score of other similar
tunes. He had told the people at the store that his name
was Bull Jones, and that he was an old worn-out man —
an old mem.ber of a marine band, and that he had once
had a brown stone front in the greatest city of the world.
But, ah, temptation had come, and nothing was left but
his dear old fiddle. He said that his home was now
wherever his hat was on his head. This was too much
for the fathers of Blood Camp, and with no further
investigation they took him in to their homes. He was
the center of attraction at the store. Hours at a time he
sat on a coffee bag in the store playing the tunes as called
for by the boys.
"Greatest fiddler I ever saw, an' I guess the greatest
'ne thet enybody else ever saw," exclaimed Fen Green.
Sometimes the old fiddler went home with a farmer
of the hills for the night. On the morning he would go
with the others to the field, and pay for his keep with
the hoe. Another night he went with the blacksmith
and made himself "handy" with the milking and other
chore work, as pay for his night's lodging. He was
always happy, lodged with all, made a good workman at
whatever was needed to be done, and, best of all, he
could always be depended upon to play the fiddle, and to
play the very tune that each individual liked best.
Bull Jones looked to be a man of some fifty years. He
wore a grey beard, a suit of well-worn clothes with
patches, and chewed tobacco and "swapped" with the
boys. Bull Jones, the fiddler, was soon in great de-
mand in the settlement. The fact is, that he had not
been in the neighborhood a fortnight until he had more
invitations to "stay all night" than he was able to fill for
months.
On rainy days the fiddler took his place on the bag
of coffee in the store and played the whole day through.
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 19
Those were great days for the folks of Blood Camp.
Even old Jase Dillenburger would hang about and
whittle on a pine stick and enjoy the music with the
others. Then, too, perchance, Miss Emeline Hobbs
would come into the store when some such tune as
"Sourwood Mountain" had begun, and would fain have
thumped her wooden peg against the floor a few times
out of sheer delight, had not she recalled that she was
the superintendent of the Sunday-school and thereby the
leader and example of the community.
Winter had come again, and Emeline Hobbs longed for
the day when Paul Waffington would return, that she
might tell him that she had ''held out" in the matter of
the Sunday-school. The expected time of his visit was
passing by, and hope gave way to fear and she gave
it up.
'TVe give him out," she said as she sat down. "Don't
think he's comin' back. I've 'splained every Scripture
over four times — every one that I can think of, an* I
jist don't know no more (but mind that you don't tell
anybody that I said so, Aunt Mina). I was athinken'
that I'd begin on Jonah next Sunday, if he didn't come.
I need a new start, somehow. If I just had a new start!
I could run fine for 'nother year, if I just had a new
start!"
"Now, Miss Emeline, doan't you pester yo'self 'bout
'im comin' anymo'. He's acomin'. He's acomin' whin
he said he would. He'll be he'ar an' do'an you bothar
'bout it any mo'. Lordy bless yo', honey, dat man is a
plum po're gentleman, he is. Yo' jist go on holden' dat
Sunday-skule an' akeepin' it agoin'. An' my o'le black
man, Laz, he'll keep yo' fires agoin' jes' like he promi'se."
It was the voice of good Aunt Mina, the old black
woman of the village.
20 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
*'But he ain't acomin', taint no use," persisted Emeline.
"Now, honey, yo' jes Hs'en he'ar. Yo' go right on an'
tell 'em Jonah next Sunday. Dat's good. I like dat
m'self. I tell yo' he's acomin'. Here, Laz, yo' poke de
fire an' put on some mo' bark. Jis' fo' mo' sheets an'
three dresses, an' I'll git yo' supper, Laz — best o'le neg-
ger man ebber lived ! Yess'um I'll have yo' iron'on' done
by fo' o'clock fo' yo'. Miss Emeline, I'll have it done
by dat time sure. Now he's acomin', an' do'an yo' pester
yo'self 'bout it no mo'."
True to his promise to Emeline Hobbs and Gena Fil-
son, Paul Waffington went back to Blood Camp. His
first promise had been to Gena Filson — to visit her in
her mountain home. It was late in the afternoon when
he walked up in front of the little cabin that' had been
the home of Lucky Joe. He drew up by the gate and
called out loudly, but no response. He called again and
again, but heard only the echo of his own words in an-
swer. Again and again he called, but all was silent.
"Poor Mrs. Filson, not at home. Poor woman ! Per-
haps she had gone to make her home with some distant
relative," he said sorrowfully. Then hailing a passing
mountain youth, he asked:
"Where are the people who live here?"
"Nobody lives there," replied the boy.
"Where are the people who did live here?" he again
asked.
"Don't know. They're gone. Some dead — some gone
off."
He turned in at the little gate, and as he approached
the house he noted that everything about it went to
prove that it was fast crumbling back to mother dust.
There was no inviting gateway, no fence now — in fact,
nothing to keep out even the unwary intruder. The
wild flowers and vines that had voluntarily entwined
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 21
their tendrils about the doorway in the budding spring-
time had drooped their feeble, thirsty heads and died,
and in tliis late November afternoon there remained of
them little more than a memory.
The house looked as if it had been transformed into a
conference hall of spooks and ghosts. But, taking cour-
age, he managed to push open its decaying door and walk
through its empty chambers with stealthy steps. Within
all was still and deathlike, save the ringing echoes of his
own footsteps upon the floor. He looked upon the walls,
and they were barren. He turned to the little open win-
dow, through which, no doubt, the eyes of hope had
longingly gazed upon the world; there, too, was the
fireplace, with its broken hearthstone, where mountain
love had often gathered in the evening. But, lo! their
taper had burned low and gone out!
As Paul Waffington came out and sat upon the door-
step of this deserted mountain home, thoughts came to
him that hitherto were foreign, and a feeling stole over
him that he will not soon forget. He recalled the face in
the casket. He heard again the cries of the sweet little
Gena. He again sees the mother as she sobbed and
moaned that day over the casket:
**0 Joe, dear Joe, dear Joe, I forgive you all — I for-
give you all."
As the terribleness of it all comes up before him, and
remembering that God does not look upon sin with the
least degree of allowance, his heart bleeds within him,
and he would give worlds were they his to give if it
were not so.
He got up from his place and circled the house, but
no new discoveries were made. He took another look
through the door, shook his head and walked slowly
away.
22 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
"A deserted home!" he said, as he took a last look at
the house from the gate. A friendly bird called out one
note from a tree above. "The very birds of the air
seem to say it — a deserted home," he said, as he turned
to go into the village, with his hat pulled well down
over his eyes.
CHAPTER IV
Driven to Endless Toil
In life's glad morning a mother-bird warbled forth
her song of praise. The soft and tender notes that she
sang were sweet, and their melody told a story of love.
The burden of her song today was home, and she worked
as she sang. Day after day she flew about, toiling and
building at the nest until it seemed that her wxary wings
would fail to bear her up. The fatigues and the torrid
heat of the day were trying, but they failed to rob her
of her song. But one bright day the task was done.
Then she lifted her tiny head into the blue above and
sang were sweet, and their melody told a story of love,
when the little birdlings came, how the mother-heart beat
with rapture ! Day after day, with unfailing strength,
she made trip after trip on w^eary wings to feed the bird-
lings in the nest. Each time she returned and dropped
a worm into a hungry mouth, only to be off again in
quest of food for another. But when all are fed she
takes her place upon the bough above and begins anew
her song.
She is singing her song today to the birdlings in the
nest. She is telling them that there is much sweetness
in life, and that they must have confidence. Aye, she
is telling them of that sad day when mother's wings shall
no longer bear her up — the day that each of them shall
climb upon the rim of the old home-nest, stretch his
little, tender wings, and sail away over life's sea upon
his own resources.
24 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
The long summer through, happiness permeates the
nest. The mother-bird sang, she fed^ she cooed and the
birdlings grew stronger. But one sad day, ''the snare of
the fowler" laid low the mother-bird and destroyed the
nest.
Not unlike the birds is too often the truth with human
life. The morning of life comes to us blooming with
glad expectations of youth. Then, as we grow into
young manhood and young womanhood, we see
no cloud upon the sky, no worm in the bud
of promise, no anticipated barriers to the full
enjoyment of human bliss. But, alas ! if we
could lift the veil that hides the future from our eyes
the pleasant dreams of youth would pale away before
stern realities. Sooner or later we had best learn that
which another has well said, that — "life_ is^earQ^st.
That it is fraught with great peril as well as with grand
and noble victories. That life is not an idle
promenade through fragrant flower gardens, but
it is a stern pilgrimage — a battle and a march." How
sweet it is to have father's and mother's strong arms
about us to protect and bear us up ! But one day the
father's strong arm shall lose its strength, crumble and
fall; the home-nest is broken, and we shall go out into
life upon our own responsibilities and resources to fight
the battles of life alone.
How little the world knows of the adverse conditions
under which a large per cent, of the children of our
own Appalachian region must struggle in their earlier
and tender years. Too often it falls to their lot to be
set adrift — like the birdling from a broken nest.
The lot of Gena Filson, the only daughter of Lucky
Joe, was a hard one. Lucky Joe Filson had not been
much of a father to little Gena. Nevertheless, he had
always been kind to her, even tender in his uncouth-
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 25
way. But now her father and mother were both sleep-
ing under the chestnut trees on the hill overlooking Blood
Camp, and her friends were few indeed.
But true to his promise, Paul Waffington journeyed
back to the hills and sought her mountain home. He
turned from the deserted home and went into the village
and learned the truth. The villagers told him of the
mother's death and the subsequent going away of the
brothers to the far west, in quest of fortune and fame,
leaving behind them the baby of the nest, Gena, aged
thirteen, bound under the roof of old Jase Dillenburger,
to wear her little body away over the rocks and hills,
toiling for him. He met her at the Sunday-school on the
following Sunday, and went with her to the cabin on the
mountain side, and was introduced to her savage foster-
father, old Jase. After a brief visit, he presented the
promised book, "Captain January," and departed.
"Good-bye," he said to Jase Dillenburger. "A fine
little soul is your adopted daughter, and I know that you
appreciate your position to her. Good-bye, Gena. Strive
to ahvays keep yourself as sweet as you now are, and I
am sure that it will bring happiness to all. Good-bye."
The long summer months had passed away since he
who had promised to befriend her had taken his de-
parture from the cabin on the mountain, and the succeed-
ing days brought her only toil and abuse. Through the
heat of the summer she had been compelled to go to the
field with the others, and work with the hoe. Then, when
summer was over, there were scores of unfinished tasks
in the cabin waiting for her tired hands.
She sits tonight in the cabin by the side of old Jase's
portly wife, darning her part of the huge pile of yarn
socks that lay before them. The light by which she
works is not an electric burner, — not even the common
brass lamp of years ago, but rather a faint light, com-
26 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
ing from the end of a strip of cloth immersed in a spoon-
ful of grease. Even though the light is faint and does
flicker, the golden head looks shapely and the neck and
eyes are beautiful. Long before ten o'clock the short
little back grows tired, and the big, blue eyes grow heavy,
but she works on with never an outward sign of fatigue.
Whenever the last sock is darned, then, perhaps, she
will be allowed to go to her hard bed. But her tired
limbs are hardly relaxed in sleep until the thundering
voice of old Jase commands her to get up.
"Git up, an' git about ! The clock's struck four an' no
fires built, nor nothin' done. You build the big fire fust,
'fore you go to the cookin' ! An' mind thet you put the
back log on right, too, or I'll tan you up when I git up.
Move about now !" And thus, being driven by a hard
and uncompromising hand through such drudgery as this,
the tender and delicate hands were becoming thin and
coarse, the pretty little form twisted and dwarfed, and
the rosy-cheeked face growing pale and pinched.
Gena Filson had good blood in her veins. Joseph Fil-
son had been born in the mountains and his father be-
fore him. But old Granny Green knew all the facts of
how it came about, that Joseph Filson brought his wife
into the mountains from the Pennsylvania settlements in
those early days. Before Granny Green died, she had
taken the Allisons into her confidence and told them the
true story of the mother of Gena Filson. When Joseph
Filson was young, a drover had employed him as a helper
with the cattle on the long trips that were made to the
markets of Pennsylvania. In the third year of Joseph
Filson's drovership, he brought back with him into the
mountains his young bride, *'a teacher from the Penn-
sylvania settlements," as he announced to his friends.
For the first few years of her married life the wife of
Joseph Filson was happy. Then her life narrowed down
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 27
and became bound by the mountain fastnesses, but never
a murmur from her. Years went by and Joseph yielded
to temptation, but she was not too harsh. He went to
prison at last, but she bore up under it for the family's
sake. But in the end, grief overcame her, and tenderly
she was laid to rest in the chestnut grove along by the
side of the mountaineer whose name she bore.
In the bright afternoon sunshine Gena Filson sits in
the door of the cabin on the mountainside, and looks off
over the thousands of peaks and wonders what will be
the end of her. Hard labor is driving the red from her
cheeks. She looks at her hands and notes the thinness
and the corns in her palms. If she were only away over
on the other side of that great peak over there, she
thought ! Oh, it would seem rest to her ! Who lives over
there, she knows not. But just to be away, to get away
from the hard knocks of old Jase, would be rest to her
weary limbs ! But the hawk-eye of old Jase was always
upon her. He had lately bound her world by the yard
fence, which was some thirty feet square, unless she was
sent into the field for something, and then always with
another. Twice she had asked if she might visit her
mother's grave on a Sunday afternoon, and received all
but a flogging for the asking.
"Go to your mammy's grave? I'll go ye to somebody's
grave. You let the ded alone. Nobody is goin' to bother
yer mammy's grave. We got no time to spendin' on ded
uns. It's hard for us to keep the livin' agoin'. My
mammy never had a flower on her grave, an' I haint seed
it in twenty year'. Your mammy warn't no better than
my mammy wuz, if she did come frum Pinsilvaney. I'm
your boss now. You git about pullin' weeds down thar
in the garden or sumthin'. An' ef I hear of ye aspeakin'
of sich foolin' agin, I'm agoin' to tan ye up," and with
28 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
a shake of his huge fist old Jase turned and went down
the mountainside.
After the old mountaineer had gone, she ventured to
go out to the yard fence and look down the mountainside
towards the village of Blood Camp. It was now late in
the Sunday afternoon, and she saw the people returning
to their homes from the little Sunday-school that Paul
Waffington had organized two years before. Her young
heart was full now at the sight of the Sunday-school
scholars. How she longed to be with them. True, old
Jase had permitted her to attend for a time. But then
she came home one day with Paul Waffington with her,
and the old man had been miserably persecuted for
an hour or more by the presence of a good man in his
house. Since that time old Jase had told her that it was
best for her to stay near him, and that he himself didn't
go to "sich doing's as Sunday-skules."
She stood and looked down upon the dispersing
scholars and wondered whv she could not be as free as
they. Why had she so few friends? Why had her two
brothers deserted her so? Why had they never written
to her? Perhaps they did, but the letters never reached
her.
**But Mr. Waffington said that he would come back to
see me again, and that he would be my friend," she finally
said aloud. She sighed as she looked away out over the
domes and peaks of the Blue Ridge, saw the long golden
finger of the setting sun kiss the hills good-night, turned
and went into the cabin.
That night Gena Filson went to her hard bed with her
heart full — it was heavy. She well knew that the morn-
ing would bring her nothing less than another solid week
of hard and continuous toil, and, oh, could she endure it !
As she lay in her dark corner and thought of her place
in the world, and of her hard master, old Jase, she wished
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 29
that she might be dead, and wondered, if such were the
case, if he would allow her the privilege of being buried
by the side of her dear mother under the chestnut tree.
"Nobody thinks of me! Nobody cares for me! No-
body loves me!" she cried, in the late hours of the night.
Then turning on her hard bed she fell asleep to dream.
She dreamed of a beautiful country where people are
gentle and kind, where everyone is friendly and just,
and where little mountain girls never grow hungry or
cold. And as she went forward in that land, Paul Waf-
fington was the first to meet her. And together they went
into the fields and wove garlands and coverlets of daisies,
and stood at her mother's grave, and Paul Waffington
bared his head and laid the coverlet on the mound and
tucked it with all but a feminine hand.
What a pity that our Gena could not always dream
on and never awake to her hard material surroundings !
But perish the thought; and let her dream on in peace
novv, for the morning will dawn, aye, too soon.
CHAPTER V
The Shepherd of Nobody's Sheep
Paul Waffington was a Kentuckian. He was of
that old Scotch-Irish type, of good blood, honest and
poor, who, combining tact and skill, have always
forged their way to the front. He had been bred and
born in a cabin near by the town of Hazel Green
that was made famous in the story of "Jo"3.than and
His Continent," by Max O'Rell.
When he was but a boy, hundreds of times he had
followed in the footsteps of his father, — gone out on
the ridges and gathered his load of fat pine-knots,
that father and son alike might have a light by v/hich
to pursue their study. Then when circumstances
changed a bit, and a half opportunity at a college
course was offered him, he accepted it with a will.
Even v/hen in college he had been called "sissy"
and "girlie" by many of his classmates, for the simple
reason that he was compelled to pay his way with
the labor of his hands. But Paul Waffington cared
not a straw for such proffered titles. Therefore, with
■d firm jaAv and a determined heart, he rolled up his
sleeves each evening and went into the mountain of
('irty dishes before him with confidence, believing that
revv-ard was at the end. x\nd if, after darkness comes
light and after toil comes rest, then so it ever will be,
that dili;0-ence and perseverance must bring reward.
One day college life was over with Paul Waffington.
There was much bustle and hurry to get away, and
he was leaving with the others. Around the old hall
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 31
with its ivy-covered walls they lingered as they
cheered and comforted one another and said good-bye.
Amid those last moments of parting a little, frail, old
man pushed his way through the crowd, and taking
young Waffington by the hand led him away. Out
through the long hall they went together, and into
the little classroom through w^hich the young collegian
liad passed a thousand times before. It was dear
old Professor Goff that had singled him out and led
him away. Such a dear old man, reader, from vvhom
you turned away on that other day when you yourself
went away from college. The old man shut the door
Hnd took his student's hand in his own bony palms
and held it long. Then came the parting message
•<i?'d the benediction and then the final handshake —
and the aged man tried to say good-bye, but the words
were never spoken.
The real commencement of Paul Waffington's life
i>egan when he turned away from the old man, w^ent
cut and shut the door. Everyone knew that Waf-
fington had not only v/on the college honors — a gold
medal, but that he had won and was carrying away
with him the heart of the grand old man of the
college.
Since college days he had for a time pitched his tent
with the "lumber jacks" of the north — there to learn
the true worth of honest toil. Then followed a couple
of years of "roughing it" among the sandhills of New
pvlexico, that taught him to look the world in the
face with confidence and courage. Finally, he returns
to a certain city in his own southland and there es-
tablished himself — to work in the interest of the
nhildren of the Appalachian hills.
We see him now as he steps from his car with
traveling-bag. Five feet nine; twenty-two years,
32 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
straight, and walks a little fast for most men of his
age.
Blood Camp had been but little in the mind of
Paul Waffington of late. In fact, demands upon him
in other directions had taxed his mind and body to
their capacity. More than a year had elapsed since he
was in Blood Camp, but, after all, the time had not
seemed long to him. But now^ as he turned in at
his headquarters for a few days' rest, Gena and the
people of Blood Camp comes sharply up before him.
During the past few months he had had conversa-
tion with two or perhaps three commercial travelers
who had passed through the village recently, but they
could give him no information of little Gena or old
Jase. He settled at his desk and began going through
his mail. After dashing off his answer to the last
letter of the stack of accumulated mail, he turned from
the desk and settled back in his chair with a breath
of relief. But no sooner done, a feeling of apparent
fear or dread possessed him.
"It is a little strange, though, that Gena has never
written one single word," he at length said, as he
studied the floor. "I gave her some postcards and
merelv asked her to droD a line now and then, that I
might know that she does well. Yes, I asked Jase
to write, too. How long has it been? November is
twelve, and June is seventeen months and never a
word! Then I sent her a little Christmas present,
too. But who knows if she received it? Jase may
have taken it from the post-office, torn the little silk
scarf to shreds and put a match to it for all I know.
Oh no, he didn't. Jase Dillenburger is too old a man
to treat a sweet girl like Gena Filson in such a man-
ner. His own adopted daughter? Oh no, he took
the package to her. She simply has been too busy
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 33
with the work that her tender hands find there to
write," he finishes. Then for a full ten minutes he
sat thinking it all over. "Don't like this protracted
silence, though. Something might be wrong at Blood
Camp," he murmured.
Walking to the door of his room he looked out
into the street. Darkness was coming on. He sees
the street-lamps flash out their first rays for the night,
and watches the carbons jump and pop in the one
nearest him, as the current burnt off the new tips.
' 'fting his eyes a little, he looked through the meshes
of telephone and electric wires, and searches the stars
for answer to the question that he was debating in his
mind.
'Terhaps I ought to go. It's a long way removed
from Knoxville, though, is Blood Camp. A hundred
and twenty by rail and forty horseback or foot." Tak-
ing a hasty look into his pocketbook he looked up
quickly and finished, "and afoot this time without a
doubt."
The telephone bell rang, and he went to the tele-
phone with his question unsettled.
"Hello."
"How is that?"
"Yes, sir; this is Paul Waffington."
"I didn't understand. Doctor." '
"Well, I am very sorry, Doctor, but I will be away."
"Why— er— Blood Camp, Doctor."
"Good-bye, Doctor." He hung up the receiver,
turned about and shoved both hands down deep into
his trousers pockets and stared at the floor.
"Now it's settled, I think. Doctor Gray wanted me
for dinner to-morrow and I told him that I was going
away — to Blood Camp, so now it's settled. Well, my
34 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
promise is out to Gena Filson anyway, so that set-
tles it."
On the following morning the hero of this narrative
stepped from his train with an air of rest and satis-
faction, with forty miles of rough mountain road
lying between him and Blood Camp. The meridian
rays of a July sun beat mercilessly down upon him,
as the rocks threw him first to one side of the road
and then to the other side. But never a faltering
moment with Paul Waffington, for the inviting
shadows of the Mighty Snake was his goal.
He had learned early and well that great lesson,
preparation. Hence he began early in the afternoon
to find lodging along the way. At first he drew up
before a little brown cottage near the roadside. The
little mother of the home was sick, hence our traveler
must be denied. He trudged on through the dust and
called at the large white house just at the forks of
the road. Here, too, was sickness, coupled with the
fact that the master of the house was away. i\gain
he takes up his traveling-bag, wipes the wet dust
from his brow and journeys on. It seemed to the
traveler a long way to the next house. But just before
turning into the gorge he sav/ a great farmhouse by
the roadside. Fat, sleek cattle grazed in the clovers ;
the barns were bursting with the crops of the pre-
ceding year; the fields were waving with coming
crops, and surely, thought our pilgrim, he would lodge
here with ease.
"What did you say your bizness is?" asked the
woman on the front porch.
*T'm a Sunday-school worker, madam. Tm on my
way to Blood Camp, and am tired and sore. I cer-
tainly would be glad to abide the night with you ;
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 35
I have change with which to pay for my lodging"
and "
"I'm mighty sorry, but we're all sick here, an' I
guess we can't keep ye."
"Is not that your husband over there in the field
with the horses?" he inquired, kindly.
"Yes, sir. But you needn't ax him, fur we're all
sick here an' I guess thet we can't keep ye," she
finished, as she moved towards the door.
"Madam, have you any sons?" he ventured to ask at
length.
"Oh, a boy. But he's not here. He's in Texas."
"Well, may the good Lord bless him. And may
he ever find a kindly home in which to abide the night
when he falls among strangers. Good evening,
madam," and swinging his heavy hand-bag as if it
were a mere trifle, with renewed determination he
trudged on.
The sun was closing his great, wonderful eye in the
west and darkness was fast filling the valleys and
gorges. On either side of his way now appeared
great clumps of wild ivy and rhododendrons. Down
from the deep gorge a gentle breeze brought to his
nostrils the sweet breath of wild honeysuckles and
mountain roses. He quickened his steps and went
forward, believing that he could continue to walk the
whole night through, in the breath of the sweet flow-
ers. Here and there he plucked a tuft of mountain
moss from the trunk of a fallen tree. Now he snatched
a wild cucumber blossom from its stem that brushed
his face and carried it on with him.
He turned into the deep gorge in the twilight of
evening, recalling what he had once been told of the
attacks of the wild animals that frequent the gorge.
Then, too, he had been told, that the gorge contained
36 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
at times bands of cutthroats and robbers, besides not
a few moonshine distilleries. Commercial travelers
always made it a point to pass through the gorge
in the daytime. And if, perchance, they were delayed
in making the gorge in the heat of the noon-day's
sun, they lodged the night on the North Carolina side,
or vice versa, in order to be safe from harm.
"But nobody would harm me, I believe," Paul Waf-
fington murmured as he passed on into the gorge.
Just then he made out through the twilight a cabin
almost hidden by a clump of rhododendrons. He drew
up before it and called out :
"Hello!"
"Oh, Lordy have mercy ! Oh ! You liked to scared
me plumb to death, sure," said the voice of a large,
fat vvoman as she came running out from behind the
clump of rhododendrons, holding on to her milk-
pail with one hand and digging the warm milk out
of her eyes with the other. She stood there working
the milk out of her eyes and wiping her face, a woman
of some two hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois
and proportionately tall.
"I didn't hear you acomin' at all. Milk spilt? Why,
Lordy bless you, I don't care nothin' fur the milk.
Jist so old Blackie didn't knock the bottom clean outer
this new milk-pail is all I care fur. An' it's a thousand
wonders thet she didn't knock it clean out when she
heard you holler over there. You see, she ain't used
to hearn' anybody holler in this here gorge atter night.
Nobody passes this gorge much at night. Then, be-
sides, Blackie is the skeeriest cow in this here gorge,
an' has bin ever since she wuz a calf. An' thet's
asayin' a right smart, too, for this gorge is nine miles
long. What did you say? A stranger and want to
stay all night !" She softened down to a kind motherly
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 17
tone and continued, *'Why, Lordy bless you, child,
we're the poorest family 'twixt here an' Blood Camp
an' jist one room. But, child, if you think thet you
can put up with our fare, the door's open, go in.
Here, Cicero, fetch a chair out here in the yard, I
believe it's more pleasanter out here. Now hurry,
Cicero, an' bild' a gnat-smoke here in the yard fur
this gentleman. Hurry now. There, stranger, take
thet chair an' rest. The smoke maybe '11 keep the
gnats off. Now jist make yourself at home an' rest.
My old man and tother boy Caesar have gone to mill,
but they'll be back directly. So jist make yourself
at home and rest," and off she went into the cabin,
to bake the corn-pone on the coals for supper.
CHAPTER VI
When Evening Comes
What a world of joy, happiness and rest — of fear,
dread and remorse evening brings !
Some are glad when evening comes, and hail with
delight the first long shadows of the dying day. The
sturdy toiler of the field puts forth his sickle in the
early morning and gleans the long day through with con-
fidence, believing that when the end of the day is come
he can lay down his blade, go in at the door of his humble
home and under the spell of sweet smiles and the merry
laughter of those whom he loves, forget the toils of the
day and find sweet rest and peace.
But to another — the prisoner behind the bars — evening
brings remorse and dread. His restless body is early
astir, and he sits in his iron chains, looks out through
the bars, and watches the curtains of night receding as
the rising sun brings forth a new day. At the noontide,
he gets a glimpse of the busy, surging throngs in the
street below. He strains his ears and catches from the
throng words of cheer and strength; songs of happiness
and courage — and hope is almost born again in his bosom.
But, alas ! the day soon dies, and the gathering shadows
of night fall upon him, bringing only fear and regret,
for well he knows for him tomorrow's sun will never
rise.
Then to the weary traveler, what a world of suspense,
fatigue and rest evening brings ! At first, footsore, hun-
gry and alone, he plods on through the dust and meets
the shadows of evening with a faltering heart. But
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 39
when a friendly roof is found, how quickly the fainting
heart is changed to one of strength and multiplied joys 1
After the day is done, is it not sweet to the worn traveler
to abide the night under a kindly roof ? To go in at the
door and find a welcome? To lie down upon the couch
and sleep, assured of the protection and defense of the
home, cannot fail to fill the heart with gratitude and re-
mind us of how close akin all the world must be.
As Paul Waffington sat with his chair tilted back
against the cabin wall tonight, he watched the chip-fire
glow and burn through the darkness with great satisfac-
tion. True gratitude was welling up and running over
in his human heart as he sat alone, taking his rest. He
was thanking his lucky star that he had found the humble
home in which to abide the night. Evening breezes came
down from the great gorge above, laden with the breath
of sweet flowers. He sniffed their perfumes into his
nostrils and all but cried aloud with ecstasy. At the
further side of the yard the stream babbled and laughed
as it went on its way, hurrying on to the falls
below. It was the very stream that ran by Blood Camp.
Yes, its fountain-head rivulet began not a hundred yards
distant from the cabin in which Gena Filson dwelt to-
night. Turbulent little stream ! thought Paul Waffington.
First an eddy, then a pool; then a splash, splash over
the rocks, then a fall. Fall after fall, winding and twist-
ing forever through the rhododendrons and laurels, al-
ways overshadowed by the tall hemlocks.
*Toor little Gena Filson," he said at length. *T hope
that her life will not be laden with as many dark turns,
falls and corners as the stream on which she lives to-
night."
"Gee, gee gee-e-e-ee! Haw, haw," were the sounds
that came to his ears through the night as he looked up.
"Gee-haw! Git up, git up. Haw, haw, haw!! Haw —
40 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
woa-a-a-a-o-oo-a-a-aTi ! ! Here, Cicero, come out here an*
help Caesar tote these two turns of meal in the house
while I go and put up the mare an* sled. Hurry now,"
said the man, driving up into the yard. "Now, hurry,
Cicero, fur yo' ma has got supper ready, fur I can smell
the bread a bakin'," continued the voice.
"Pa, there's a man come," declared Cicero excitedly,
as he went out to help with the corn-meal.
"A man's come?" profoundly repeated the father, drop-
ping the bag and straightening up. "Who is it?"
"Don't know. He's a settin' side the house by the
gnat-smoke, there in the dark," said the boy.
"Well, you take the mare and the sled to the barn,
C^sar, an' I'll help Cicero with the meal an' see who it is,"
the man finished in an undertone. So saying, he lifted
a bag of the fresh corn-meal to his shoulder and made
for the open door of the cabin.
'Howdy," he simply said, as he came up by the door.
'Good evening, sir. You are the master of the house,
I suppose?" said Paul Waffington, as he arose and put
out his hand.
"I guess so. What might your name be?"
"Waffington, sir. Paul Waffington, of Knoxville. I'm
on my way to Blood Camp, and I am anxious to spend
the night with you," he said in inquiring accents.
"My name's Henry Tolson — glad to see you," was all
that he said in reply as he entered the cabin.
Paul Waffington was hungry tonight. As he sat by
the side of the open door, the smell of the frying ham
and the perfume of the baking corn-pone came to his
nostrils, and his hunger became painful.
"Here, Cicero, Csesar — come 'ere," called the mother,
as she went through the door and round to the rear of
the little cabin. "Now, I want you two boys to listen
to what I'm goin' to say: We've got big company here
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 41
tonight. An' I want to teach you boys a little more
about your table manners. Now, whin you go to the
table to eat your supper, you say 'yes, sir,' and 'no, sir,'
when the gentleman speaks to you. An' whin you want
anything that is on my side of the table, you say, 'please,
ma'am,' an' 'thank you.' An', listen, Caesar, none of
your foolin' and knockin'. Now don't fergit ! Caesar,
Cicero ! Ef you do fergit it, I'll warm you both up with a
birch sprout whin this gentleman's gone. Your ma was
brot up right an' had a good rais'en before we come
into this here country, an' I'm plum ashamed of you
two boys sometimes. Now its big company thet we've
got tonight an' I want you boys to act nice."
"Is this man bigger company than the sheriff, ma?
You know we had 'im once to stay all night," ventured
Cicero.
"Well, I don't know. But I 'low he is. He may be
the Governor fur all I know. An' if he is the Governor,
now you two look sharp — he might take you off to the
penitentiary where June Hanley and Jim Fields wint
last spring. An', oh, you have to live on bread an' water
and be put in a great, big iron coffin of a thing — where
you can't git out and jist have to bail water out of the
thing all the time, day an' night, to keep from drownin'.
Now you look sharp !" She finished as she shook her
huge fist at the head of each of the mischievous boys,
and went into the house, calHng over her shoulder, "Bring
the stranger and come to supper, Henry."
Paul Waffington went to his supper in the cabin with
a grateful heart and a gnawing appetite. Corn-bread,
sweet milk and ham was about the extent of the simple
repast. But by no means was the supper crudely pre-
pared. The flavor of the sweet corn-pone indicated
that a master hand had been at work in the preparation
of the evening meal. It was indeed a master hand. One
42 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
that had learned the trick from a past-master, away-
back on the coast of the old North State in the long ago,
when the art of cooking was taken up with a will in the
kitchen of every home.
Henry Tolson had just finished relating the story of
how it had happened that they were in their present sur-
roundings, as the supper progressed. "Yes, stranger,"
began Mrs. Tolson, taking up the story where her hus-
band had left off, "we've bin in these hills nigh on to
twenty year."
"Its not 'stranger,' mother, it's Mr. Waffington from
Knoxville," corrected Henry.
"Well, I declare, Henry, I didn't know it. But he
might a told me out there in the yard whin the cow
kicked me, fur all I know. But I was too scared to know
whether he told me his name or not or hardly anything
else. But as I was asayin', Mr. Waffington, its bin
twenty year aliken' two months since Henry an' me
come over the Boone Trail an' stopped here in this wild
gorge to rest. We had started to them goldfields away
out yander sum'ers in the west. But whin we stopped
here that night to rest — lawsa'me-alive, I can remember
it jist the same as if it was yesterday — when we stopped
ihat night an' got a campfire built we got so busy a hunt-
in' fur bread that we ain't never had no time to go on an'
hunt fur gold ! Have more milk. Pass the bread to the
str — to Mr. Waffington, Henry. Take some more ham.
You Cicero — tut, tut ! Sh ! ! " and she put her hand
down under the side of the table and shook it at the
mischievous boys.
"Oh !" exclaimed Cicero.
"Oh !" shouted Caesar.
"What's the matter, Caesar?" the mother asked, with
apparent surprise.
"Cicero kicked me on the shin Make 'im quit."
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 43
"Don't bother Caesar, Cicero. Mr. Waffington will
think that you are both mighty bad boys."
There was a long silence likened unto that perfect
silence and calm that precedes the great and mighty
storms that come up suddenly over the seas. Then
Cicero, the youngest, looked up out of the corners of his
eyes and ventured to ask:
"Aire you the Governor, Mister?"
"Why, no, my boy, I'm not the Governor. I am only a
man — a common man."
"Now, ma," Caesar chimed in. "Ma said that you wuz
the Governor and "
"Caesar Tolson, I'm ashamed of you. I'm, I'm, I'm,
I'm ashamed of you," the mother finally said in despair.
"An' Ma said that you wuz as big as the sheriff,"
piped Cicero.
"Ouch ! O ! — O ! — O ! oo — oo — my sore toe ! My sore
toe!" and away from the table and through the door
hopped Cicero Tolson on one foot, carrying the other in-
jured member in his hands. In an unguarded moment
his mischievous brother had reached his foot under the
table and come down heavily with his heel on the already
bruised and sore toe of Cicero, hence the catastrophe.
"I'm mighty sorry that my two boys have disturbed you
so, while you are atryin' to make out your supper, Mister
Waffington," Mrs. Tolson said, after she had sent the
other boy from the table. "But try to make out some
way, an' git enough if you can to keep you frum starvin'
'til mornin'. I hope you'll forgive 'em. I do hope that
you will. Maybe that you'll enjoy your sleepin' better
than your eatin' here at our house. You'll have to sleep
'tween Cicero an' Caesar — but then they're better asleep,
than they air whin they're awake."
Paul Waffington had not been disturbed by the bad
deportment of Cicero and Caesar Tolson. On the other
44 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
hand, he went to his bed in the corner of the cabin that
night with a contented mind and a rested body.
For a moment he stood over the bed holding the
candle, and looked down upon the faces of the two sleep-
ing boys. He shook his head as he looked into the ruddy
faces, and wondered, if in future years they should not
go forth from this mountain gorge with robust bodies
and great, strong minds, and employ their talents in wield-
ing a mighty influence to promote the brotherhood of
man. Thus speculating he blew out the candle, turned
down the cover, and slipped into his place between the
two, and was soon asleep.
CHAPTER VII
BOAZ HONEYCUTT
Paul Waffington awoke with the birds on the fol-
lowing morning. He came out from between the
two sleeping boys and the snowy white sheets at
the break of day, went out and bathed his face in
the running stream. He rambled through the clumps
of rhododendrons and ivy, picking the flowers, while
Henry Tolson fed the mare and Mrs. Tolson made
leady the morning's meal.
While the morning was yet early he put out his
hand and said good-bye to the little family, believing
that he had found friends in Henry Tolson and his
dear old wife. It was a fact that was plain to see,
that they were poor and unlearned. But throughout
the cabin there was cleanliness, and in everything
they said and did there was gentleness and truth.
There was something about the kind look and gentle
spirit of Mrs. Tolson that made Paul Waffington think
of his own dear mother away back in the Kentucky
valley. The good that was in him asserted itself, and
he held out his hand and said from the bottom of his
heart :
**Good-bye, Mrs. Tolson. I hope that we may meet
again. May the good Lord bless you and yours.
Good-bye."
''Why, honey, whenever you air a-travelin' up or
down this here gorge, night or day, don't you never
pass this cabin-door by. Don't you never do it. You
come right over here an' make yourself at home. An'
46 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
don't you never holler 'fore this door any more neither.
But you march right over here and take a chair, jist
the same ef your own mother wuz astandin' right
there inside. Here, take this sweetcake along with
you. You might git a little hungry along 'bout the
spring up the gorge, an' it'd keep you frum starvin'
maybe. You'll git to Blood Camp 'fore night. Good-
bye."
He swung himself out into the road and walked
along at a lively gait. Just as he made the first turn
out of sight of the cabin, if he should have been dis-
posed to stop and listen, he might have heard Mrs.
Tolson fulfilling her promise of the night before to
Cicero and Caesar.
The road before him now assumed the appearance of
one long arbor. It was lined with tall hemlocks and
banks of rhododendrons grew between. At the edges
of the road giant ferns waved to and fro in the fresh
morning air. Then, too, if seemed that the gorge
Vv'as literally alive w4th song-birds. Apparently, from
every tree birds were pouring forth their morning
song. The traveler slackened his pace a bit, removed
his hat and carried it in his hand as he went, enjoying
all nature to the limit of his capacity. Now he lin-
gered to pluck a bunch of trailing moss that hung over
a fallen tree. This July morning he was comparatively
rested in body and mind, hence he was keenly alert to
everything in nature's world, and it all brought happi-
ness to his soul.
How the heart of the thin and pale-faced city clerk
yearned for such a retreat as this, thought Waffington.
How those of the torrid cities, who bake their feet
against the blistering pavements and burn their faces
against the scalding walls, would welcome this haven
of rest among the wild flowers and singing birds. The
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 47
gentle breezes, the babbling, splashing water falling
into the deep pools and the shady recesses, would
cool their fevered temples.
For three hours or more, perhaps, the traveler kept
his way with uncovered head, enjoying the matchless
beauties of nature's world, with never a discordant
note. At the noontide he came up before the spring
in whose depth many a traveler before had quenched
his burning thirst. It stood up in the rock, a basin
cut out, moss-covered to its very brim. Crystal water
overflowed the rim and trickled down through the
moss and fell into the pool below. Paul Wafhngton
knelt down and quenched his thirst in its depth, then
seated himself on a log near by to rest and devour
the "sweetcake" that Mrs. Tolson had given him in
the early morning. He must be getting now within
some ten miles of Blood Camp, he thought, munching
the cake in silence. He wished that he might meet
someone who could tell him the things that he wanted
to know of Blood Camp. But he had met but one
other traveler during the morning, and that was the
mail-rider, who was going himself in the direction of
Blood Camp at a fast gallop.
"What's that !" he suddenly exclaimed, straining his
ears to hear.
"Ho-de-o-do, ho-de-o-de ; ho-de-o-do, ho-diddle-de-de !"
It was the echo of the voice of a boy coming down
the gorge from the direction of Blood Camp.
"Ho-de-o-do, ho-de-o-de ; ho-de-o-do, ho-diddle-de-
de I Now watch at ye ! Stan' up here ! Ef you stump
your toe an' fall down an' throw me oflF, I'll git down
an' git me a club an' knock your dang head ofif! Git
up, Moll!"
Just then an old gray horse came bouncing into
view around the turn of the road, with a boy perched
48 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
between its bony shoulders and projecting hip bones.
The boy was perhaps thirteen years old, wore a rim-
less straw hat, with bare feet and lips stained with tobacco
juice.
"Good morning, my boy," saluted Paul Waffington.
"Whoa, Moll ! Howdy," he replied, as he drew up be-
fore the spring. ''You're takin' a rest, air ye?"
"Yes, sir. Resting and eating this cake for dinner;
have a bit of it. It's pretty good. Mrs. Tolson, who
lives down at the mouth of the gorge, gave it to me
this morning."
The boy suddenly threw the piece that he had taken
to the ground with a vim, spat out the portion in his
mouth, and yelled out :
"Danged ef I eat any of it then !"
"Why, my boy, what's wrong with the cake?"
"I hate them two dang Tolson boys. They fight me.
I've licked 'em eleven times — Caesar six an' Cicero
five — an' doan't you never think that I'll ever eat a
cake or anything else that their mammy has made," and
he came down with his fist on the bony shoulder of
the gray mare as emphasis.
"Do you know that it is wrong to use profane
language — to curse."
"W^hat? Dang it cussin'? That ain't cussin'. That
ain't a starter to real cussin'. Ef you call that cussin'
it wouldn't do fur you to hear Fen Green git started
a little."
"Is that tobacco you are chewing?"
"Yep."
"What do you chew tobacco for?"
"None o' your bizness. Whoa, Moll, I say!"
"What's vour name?"
"Boz."
"What's that you said?"
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 49
"I said, Boz."
"Oh, yes, Boaz."
"Yep. What's your name?"
"Is that all the name you have, Boaz?"
"Course not. Boaz Honeycutt is all my name."
"Where do you live, Boaz?"
"Blood Camp, an' I can lick every boy my size from
Blood Camp to the mouth of this here gorge. By
giggers, I can lick Cicero Tolson quicker than a bull-
frog can snatch a fly off'n a grass-blade !" He turned
the quid of tobacco over in his mouth, spat over the
gray mare's head and asked :
"But what's your name, I said?"
"Well, my name is Waffington — Paul Waffington."
"Well, I wisht I may drap ded ! I thot I had seed
you before. Oh yes, you air the feller what organized
the Sunday-school up to Blood Camp 'bout two year
ago. Well, I wisht I may die ! I knowed thet I had seed
you before. Well, Emeline Hobbs has shore kept thet
school agoin', an' said she wuz agoin' to keep it agoin' un-
til you cum back, ef it took a milun year. But I shore
am glad thet you air agoin' back up there. I've bin
a tendin' Sunday-skule every Sunday fur nine months
'cept two. Once I wint a chestnut huntin' and tother
I v/int in swimmin' with a passel of boys. But I de-
cided to quit the skule next Sunday ef you didn't
come. I like the skule very well an' I like the lessons
middlin' well; but every time I look out the door
or spit, Emeline Hobbs jabs me on my shins with that
wooden pin o' her'n, an' my legs air sore frum it ;
an' ef she wuz a boy I'd a tanned 'er up fur it a long
time ago. Now, I want you to git her to quit jabbin'
me on my shins, git another superintender or I'm quit
alreadv now,"
50 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
"Well, Boaz, you're a better boy than many boys,
I am sure. There are boys to be found who do not
go to Sunda3^-school. I'm glad to know that you have
made such a fine record in the matter of attendance.
Now tell me, how are all the others at Blood Camp?"
''Well, about as usual. Uncle Laz still keeps the
school-house swept for Emeline an' his old woman still
irons clothes fur people. The Allisons air still keepin'
tavern whin anybody comes along. Fen Green's at-
tendin' a little patch of taters and corn upon his
mammy's place since she died. The old fiddler cum
since you wuz here. He's a fine 'ne, too. They say
he's the finest fiddler m the world, an' I wouldn't be
surprised. Fen Green goes to see Genie Filson every
Sunday. He 'lows thet he will get Jase's word to
marry Genie about Christmus. Jase likes Fen mighty
v/ell. But I don't see Genie any more. Jase stopped
her frum comin' to Sunday-skule. People say thet
she don't look as well as she used to. Some say thet
Jase is aworkin' her to deth, but Jase says she is
agrievin' herself to deth over her two brothers who
wint wxst an' wuz never heard fum any more, is what's
amakin' her look so bad."
He took a bit of tobacco from his pocket and added
it to what he already had in his mouth, and then con-
tinued:
**But Fen Green ain't no account fur Genie as a
man. Fen Green ain't worth shucks ! He couldn't
set a goose on a hillside 'thout putting the rocks on
the upper sfde. I could stick a gourd on the end of
a fence rail and learn it more sense than Fen Green's
got. Whoa, Moll ! But by giggers, I got to go."
"Well, I thank you for your information. And now
I hope that you w^ill be at Sunday-school next Sun-
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 51
day. You are a promising boy, Boaz. You might
make a great man, perhaps a great preacher."
"No, siree. I couldn't learn to kote (quote) Scrip-
ture fast enough."
"I presume that you have learned a lot of Scripture
in the Sunday-school?"
"Well, I reckon I have learned to kote a little,
maybe."
"Here's a five-cent piece, Boaz. I want to hear you
quote a verse or two of the Scriptures. If you can
do it, I am going to give you the five-cent piece, and
when you reach the town you may buy with it what-
ever you may wish. Now let's have the verse."
The boy looked at the coveted coin in the hand of
the man. He had never been in possession of so large
a piece of money before. His heart thumped heavily
as he shut one eye and sighted with the other one
through the ears of the gray mare at a rock in the
road just in front, in a feeble attempt to steady his
nerves.
"Well. I'll try a verse. 'He — he — he throwed him
over the wall — the Lord throwed a man over the
wall, an' he throwed 'im over again — then he throwed
'm over the wall seventy times seven ; then the dogs
cum an' licked all his sores — an' — an' — an' there re-
mained of the fragments thereof — twelve basketful.' "
"Paul Waffington fell over on the moss-covered log
and held his sides.
"You're a fine one, Boaz, you're a fine one. Success
will come to you in time, my boy. Just keep it up.
Here, take the money and buy candy or whatever
you like when you reach the town."
"I got to hit the road now. Killed too much time,
52 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
I guess; an' then I may have to fight them Tolsons
down the gorge about another hour 'fore I git to
go on. Started to Mountain City to git fall turnip
seed and have this plow-pint sharpened." He drew
up his reins, took from his pocket three ripe apples,
selected the finest one and began munching it.
"Why don't you eat the smallest one first and save
the best until the last, Boaz?" inquired Wafiington.
'*No, sir. You're wTong there," said the boy. "Eat
the best first an' you'll be eatin' the best all the time.
Git up, Moll ! Git up !" and away He went, disappear-
ing through the trees.
Paul Waffington sat alone, stunned. He was
puzzled.
"Eat the best first," he repeated, "and you will be
eating the best all the time." Plis brain cleared, he
smiled, and said, "He's right. That's a lesson from
a country boy, and it's a good one," and he got up
to go.
CHAPTER VIII
The Response to Duty's Call
Another day had grown old and was peacefully dying
in the west as our hero drew near unto the goal of his
heart. In the early morning he had come forth rested,
with an elastic step, bright and happy. But the torrid
heat of the noon-day had steadily followed him, and
evening had brought him hither with weary limbs.
He emerges from the gorge and slowdy mounts the
little knoll that overlooks the village.
"At last!" he exclaimed with delight. The fatigue
of the trying day overcoming him, he sinks down upon
a stone to rest and study the village that now lay
before him.
Bathed in the yellow sunlight of the dying day,
there lay before him the goal that he had been so
laboriously trying to reach for more than thirty-six
hours. To his eye there were not many changes visible in
Blood Camp. To his left he could plainly see the two little
rooms in which dwelt alone Miss Emeline Hobbs, the
Sunday-school superintendent. Since the death of
her fath'^'- and mother five years before she had lived
there alone, yet but a stone's throw from the cabin
of Uncle Lazarus and Aunt Mina. The door of her
house stood open, and Paul Waffington could make
out the figure of a woman in the excuse of a garden
at the side. For a moment he kept his eyes on the
figure among: the vines and vegetables, then the figure
gave a limp, and he knew that it was no other than
Emeline Hobbs herself. A little further to the left
54 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
was the school-house, and just about it the chestnut
grove and the grave-yard. To his right stood the
blacksmithshop, the store, and Slade Pemberton's
home and the tavern. Then lifting his eyes he beheld
the mighty Snake smiling down upon him in silence.
Again his eyes swept the mountain, and half way down
its side they rested on the cabin of old Jase Dillenburger.
From the cabin's rude chimney lazy rings of smoke
pushed each other upward. He thought, no doubt,
that the hands of Gena Filson had built the fire that
made the smoke, and perhaps at this very moment
she was busily engaged in making ready the supper
for old Jase Dillenburger and his stout wife.
The sudden stop of the clinking ring of the anvil
in the blacksmith shop reminded him that the day
was nearly done. Then roaring cheers came up from
the store, and men and boys began pushing out the
door in bunches. Fen Green was recognized among
the others, and there was among the number a new
one, the old fiddler, hence the ringing cheers. Slade
Pemberton is the last to emerge from the store. He
closed and locked the door and walked away towards
his home. But groups of lazy and idle men still
linger about the platform of the store to hear "Jist
one more tune before we go," as Fen Green had said.
Then another final cheer goes up, and every man
turns about and goes towards his own place. Day's
glittering train glides down the mighty mountain,
passes by and enters the gorges of twilight, and sends
its messenger — a peaceful silence — over the hamlet.
"How sweet is life !" exclaimed Paul Waffington, as
he arose, trudged down the knoll into the village and
turned in at the tavern gate.
The Allisons who kept the tavern greeted him cor-
dially. Supper was ready and he went into the dining-
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 55
loom with a gnawing appetite. Supper over, he con-
cluded that he would pay a little visit to Miss Emeline
Hobbs and Uncle Lazarus and Aunt Mina, in order
that he might have some definite word as to the wel-
fare of the Sunday-school.
"Oh, go 'way ! Oh, oh, go \vay ! ! No, no, doan'
go 'way. Oh ! ! ! De Lawd help my po' black so'l !
Is yo' a gos'? Or is it Puolly yo' you'self, ^lassa Waf-
fington?" Aunt Mina stood in the middle of her one-
room cabin, with both hands up and her big eyes di-
lating until all the whites were visible. Then re-
covering herself somewhat, she put back her glasses
on her forehead, dropped her big fat hands to her
hips, and gazed at the man in the door again. 'T
showly do believe dat it is Puolly yo' yo'self. - De
good Lawd be praised. Come right in he'ar an' let yo'
ole black mammy see yo' face. It is Puolly yo' yo'self.
I — I — I sed yo'd come. I sed yo'd come back. Laz
said yo'd come. De good Lawd be praised, it's yo'
yo'self." She turned to the rear door of the cabin
and put out her head in the gathering darkness and
called out:
"Laz, Laz! run he'ar dis minit — right now!" and
then turning back into the room she continued, "Miss
Emeline hed jis' 'bout give yo' out. Some said you'd
come back an' some said yo' wouldn't. Laz has kept
de house clean an' de fires goin' in winter, an' Miss
Emeline has kept de school agoin'. Laws, I'se afeared
dat she'll break dat wooden peg whin she hears dat
yo'se come." She untied the red handkerchief and
removed it from her head, readjusted her glasses on
her nose, and stood oft a little distance looking down at
Paul Waffington, her old black face glowing with
happiness.
56 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS ,
"So glad 'use come, Massa," was the greeting of
the old colored man. "We all needs you'. De little
gurl up dar on de mountain side needs you' mos',
tho'."
The two men walked out through the door into
the garden together, Waffington and the black man.
On up through the winding path the black man led
the white, through the wicker gate and into the chest-
nut grove and the grave-yard.
"I wanted to come up hear with yo' an' sho' yo'
somethin', Massa Waffington," said the old black man.
They finally came up to a giant chestnut tree. At
the trunk, the old black man pointed to a hard, slick
barren spot at the base of the tree, that was just
visible in the growing darkness.
"What made the hard worn spot. Uncle Lazarus?"
inquired Paul Waffington.
"Dese ole knees, Massa Waffington, dese ole knees,"
he said, standing with his head bowed down to the
ground. Then he lifted his eyes and looked into the
face of the white man as he continued : "Eber evenin'
after my chores is done, for mo'n a year, Massa Waf-
fington, I'se come up hear an' dropped dese ole knees
down hear an' prayed fo' yo', Massa. I'se prayed
dat yo' would come back. I'se prayed dat yo' would
be spaired an' come back to Blood Camp an' help us.
Miss Emeline needs yo', and I need yo', an' we all
need yo' so bad. Den, Massa, dat leetle gurl up
yandar on de mountain side needs yo' help worse dan
all de res'."
Together they walked back towards the gate. Paul
Waffington had spoken in reply not a word. He was
turning in his mind problems for solution.
"I thank you for your prayers, Uncle Lazarus. I
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS h7
appreciate them, I thank you for them, and you are
a good man."
"An' now 'fore we part, i'se anoder thing dat I want
to ax yo', Massa, while we is out he'ar together^ ef yo'
will bear with this 'ole black man," he ventured, as they
neared the gate.
"Why, certainly, Uncle, certainly. Why, I would be
willing to have you ask me questions all the night through,
if only I could answer them."
"I'se done knowed dat dis 'ole black man aint gwine ter
be he'ar many mo' summers at mo's. I'm gettin' mighty
feeble, Massa. My jints is growin' stif, an' i'se all
weighted down wid years. Here lately i'se
bin wantin' to kno' mo' 'bout dat odder worl' away
off up yander som'ers. Atter I gits da school-house
swept out Sunday mornin's, I'se bin stayin' an' a
hearin' Miss Emeline a tellin' 'bout it to da chirens.
I'se bin longin' to ax yo' 'bout it, den I'll be satisfied.
Is dar any good place fo' an ole black man like me
away off in dat country?" The feeble old man lifted
his thin eyes and looked into Paul Waffington's face
for an answer with all the yearning of his soul.
"Yes, there is. Uncle Lazarus," came the answer,
in low, gentle tones.
"De good Lawd be praised. Tse ready to die," he
shouted, turning his black face to the starry heavens
in humble thanksgiving.
It was dark now, and the stars came out and looked
as bright as gold. Paul Waffington looked up at the
peaks of the mighty Snake and at the myriad of
stars beyond, and was grateful for all. Near by the
gate he stopped and reverently removed his hat as
he looked upon a grave whose turf was now growing
old. For a full minute he stood, when the silence was
broken by the black man.
58 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
''Under dat moun', Massa Waffington, res' de body
of de bes' woman, de bes' mudder, dat eber lived in
dis worF. Many is de time dat dis ole nigger man
has waded thro' de snow deeper den my knees an'
gone an' fixed firewood fo' her an' dat little angel
Genie to keep warm by, when Joe wa' wild an' bad.
Hundreds ob dark winter nights I'se rocked an' sung
to dat little baby Genie, sung to her 'bout bettar
times whin she'd be a woman." Then he went on
half aloud: "But dem bettar times fo' dat little body
aint nebbar come yit. Aye, Massa, bes' heart dat
ebber beat lays der asleep under dem daisies."
They walked out through the wicker gate together.
Each was engaged with his thoughts.
"If I can do anything to make life easier for Gena
Filson, I am going to do it, Uncle Lazarus. I know-
that Jason Dillenburger is mistreating his adopted
daughter. I know, too, that to cross Jase Dillen-
burger's path means death perhaps. But both Gena
and Jase invited me to come to see them when I
returned to Blood Camp, therefore, I have decided
to go up tonight and pay my respects to Jason Dil-
lenburger and his adopted daughter. Jase has naught
against me, and I believe that he will truly be glad
to see me. Good night, Uncle Lazarus," he called,
as he turned from the gate.
"Jus' one mo' question from dis ole black man fo'
yo' go, Massa, jus' one mo'."
"Why, Uncle, two of them if you wish," came the
good-natured reply.
"My mind has been pesterin' me a heap o' late 'bout
a question. I — I want to ax yo'. Where is de modder
ob dat little Genie tonight? Is she at res'?"
For a moment Paul Waffington stood in the night
with his eyes penetrating the darkness that filled the
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 59
valley below. Then, beckoning with his hand for thd
black man to draw near, he showed him the mighty
Snake with its domes and peaks that stood up in the
starry night. Then he pointed out the tall pines
that waved on the mountain top, then the stars that
twinkled and shimmered beyond.
*'Yes, Uncle Lazarus," he finished, "far, far beyond
where the stars come forth at evening time in their
cars of gold, there lies a land of perennial bliss. A
country where thinly clad mountain mothers never
suffer from hunger and cold; where little children of
the poor and lowly never cry for bread ; where hard
toiling men of the world, if they be faithful, shall
find rest under the shade o.f the tree. And methinks,
tonight, in the border of that congenial clime, the
mother of Gena Filson dwells budding and blooming —
a flower more beautiful than the rose."
He let loose the black man's arm, closed the wicker
gate, and went his way through the starry night.
CHAPTER IX
Lifting the Yoke
Paul Waffington inhaled deep draughts of the crisp
night air as he ascended the mountain side, and was re-
freshed. He had been glad to greet the folk of the little
village after two long years of absence. Especially glad
to learn of the sticking qualities of Miss Emeline Hobbs
and the prosperity of the little Sunday-school. With all
this he had been in some degree satisfied. But there was
one thing still for which he had a longing desire to know,
and that one thing was, how went life with Gena Filson.
Well, he soon would know, and with renewed energy he
mended his pace up the mountain side. Half way up,
he stopped and looked down at the little village in the
dark valley. Some two or three faint flickering lights
was all that could be made out. The laboring men of
the mountains retire early and arise early. Not all the
fathers of the Blood Camp neighborhood idled away
their time. Many of them were logmen — men who
felled trees the long day through, winter and summer
alike, others yoked together the oxen and "snaked in"
the logs from the mountain coves so they could be
loaded on the wagons and hauled away to the markets.
But, by this hour, the oxen had been given his fodder,
each workman had sat at his humble board and partaken
of his portion, and now man and beast had gone to his
bed that he might find rest. Under the shining heaven's
blue Paul Waffington stood upon the mountain's side
and reflected upon it all. A single light was now burn-
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 61
ing in Blood Camp. He watched its faint glow — it
flickered now and went out — Blood Camp is at rest.
''What if old Jase should resent this visit?" he thought,
as he resumed his journey. Well, old Jase had invited
him in the first place to visit his home. It was not a late
hour — 7 \Z0 o'clock. Rather a seasonable hour for a
summer night's call, he thought. And, further, it was
perfectly proper for him to accept the invitation and
pay his respects to Jase Dillenburger and his adopted
daughter.
But what could he do for Gena Filson? If Jase were
willing he might assist her to a scholarship in some col-
lege of music. She had gone to the public schools until
her thirteenth year, but that was little indeed. Then her
own mother had been a Pennsylvania school-teacher and
had taught her little daughter much at home. She had
once even said that she was fond of music. Now, if old
Jase were willing, he might do something to help her to
get a musical education. But, aye, would the old moun-
taineer let her go, if the college were found, board pro-
vided and tuition — and all paid ? Would he be willing
to let her go at any price? Would he ever let her go
beyond the neighborhood of Blood Camp, for any
reason? Well, at all events, thought Paul Waffington,
he would do the best that he could for her. "Eat the
best first" was the maxirrf of Boaz Honeycutt, and Paul
Waffinj2fton decided that he would "do the best first" for
Gena Filson. In fact, he meant to adopt the maxim of
Boax Honeycutt in many things hereafter. He had re-
solved to have the best first in all his work henceforth.
"As you go out into life, remember, Paul, my boy, that
the parting words of old Professor GoflF in the college
class-room came to him clear and plain :
"As you go out into life, remember, Paul, my boy, that
every man is a^culptor. Remember, that the stones which
62 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
you are ca rving are the, people wif:h whom VOU ^0"^^* ^»
contact. Each deed and act are strokes upon the chisel
which 3^ou will hold. Some strokes upon the chisel will
deface the stone for time. Other strokes will poHsh, and
carve beauty and character. Hold your chisel at such an
angle and apply such strokes, my boy, as will bring polish
to the stones and happiness to the world."
These grand words were ringing in his ears tonight, as
he put out his hand and turned the latch in the gate in
front of Jase Dillenburger's cabin. At the first click of
^the latch, the great watch-dog flew down through the
yard with a vicious look. But Paul Waffington had had
experience with dogs before. Bringing his tact quickly
into play, he saluted the great mastiff with a low, gentle
whistle, and they were friends at once, without a single
bark from the dog. He wished to give old Jase and Gena
a complete surprise tonight. Then, too, he was fearful,
if the dog should give warning, that old Jase might mis-
take him for an officer of the law and shoot him on the
spot. How he would surprise them, he thought at last !
Would not Gena be glad to see him after more than a
year of absence? Then what would he find her doing?
Perhaps reading to her foster father from some cast-oflf
weekly paper that Slade Pemberton had given Jase.
Maybe she was singing some hymn that she had recently
learned in the Sunday-school.
He walked lightly up to the door and put his hand
out to knock
"What's that?" he said under his breath.
*'You aint no account. Your old sorry daddy before
you warn't no account. He warn't nothin' but a cold
black murderer. That's what he wuz, an' he died in the
pen, ter boot ! But you're mine by law, an' you've got
to do as I say. You aint apayin' fur the salt 'at goes in
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 63
yer bread. Sick? Sick nothin'. Git outen that bed.
I'll let you know when ter go ter bed."
Paul Waffington stood at the cabin door and heard it
all. He swallowed down a great lump that came up in
his throat, and his heart thumped against his breast
loud and fast. He clinched his fists and shoved them
deep down into his coat pockets, and listened again. His
ears caught the begging cry and pleading of the girl as
she lay upon her hard bunk.
"I'm so sick, daddy Jase. I'm so sick, daddy Jase. I
can't get up. I can't get up, daddy Jase. Oh, my dear
mamma, if you would only come back and take me
away !" was the final cry that came so feebly from the
feverish lips.
The old mountaineer's voice grew louder and more
furious, and then Paul Waffington heard distinctly the
stroke ! ! ! The door flew open as if a bolt of light-
ning had struck it as Paul Waffington went through.
''Hold on there, Jase Dillenburger, hold on there!
Don't you strike her again, don't, don't, don't you strike
her again, I say. Yes, I know that you can kill me. You
can shoot me on the spot. But, Jase Dillenburger, don't
you forget to calculate that if I come up missing I have
two brothers back in the Kentucky valley that will hunt
you down like the stealthy fox that you are. They will
scour this continent for your shaggy head — aye, they will
drag the sea for your bones. Don't you strike — don't,
don't. If I were not a gentleman and a Christian I would
say to you, begone to your place, you imp of Satan^ and
I would punctuate it with this," and he shot out his ath-
letic fist like an iron shaft within an inch of old Jase
Dillenburger's nose and held it there, glaring into the
beady-black eyes of his savage enemy without a tremor.
For a moment they both stood glaring at each other.
Then, quick as a flash, Paul Waffington flew to the bunk,
64 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
snatched the sick girl in his arms and cleared the door,
crouching as he went, expecting to be shot with old Jase's
deadly gun.
He evidently had judged his man aright. As he cleared
the door old Jase reached for his gun, with which to
bring down his man. But as the hammer of his gun
came back, strong arms wound around him, steel bands
snapped together over his wrists, and before he could col-
lect his mind three men had their hands upon him, and
the "Spokesman of the three was no other than the old
fiddler himself.
"In the name of the President and the United States,
I arrest you, Jason Dillenburger," said the fiddler, at the
same time exhibiting the badge of a United States rev-
enue officer.
Ten minutes after the handcuffs had snapped together
around the wrists of Jase Dillenburger Paul Waffington
had placed Gena Filson between clean, white sheets on a
bed in the home of Emeline Hobbs. The people of Blood
Camp were stirred and seemicd conscious of some great
change taking place in some inexplainable way, hence it
was but a few minutes until the little house of Emeline
Hobbs was running over with frightened people.
As the night wore on, some of the people returned to
the others were told the story of the flight, and were re-
quested not to insist on going into the sick-room, for the
sake of the sick one. Men stood about in groups and
shook their heads while women spoke out boldly and
pitied Paul Waffington, for they were constrained to be-
lieve that Jase Dillenburger would be on the trail of him
within an hour, and when found would shoot him down.
As the night wore on, some of the people returned to
their homes, others hung about the sick-room at a safe
distance to see if Jase Dillenburger would appear. By
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 65
and by, word was passed out from the sick-room that
Gena Filson was burning up with a dreadful fever and
that she was then dehrious. It was certain now that some
grave sickness was upon her. Paul Waffington sought
out Fen Green, and asked him if he would venture to
make the twelve miles through the dark night and the
gorge for the doctor.
**Fenton, I want you to bring the doctor when you
return without fail. Gena is burning up with fever,
and is delirious. Make all the speed that you possibly
can, Fenton," was the request of Waffington.
'Til bring 'im. Don't you never doubt but what I'll
bring 'im. I'll bring 'im, dead or alive, shore's my name
is Fen Green," and into the dark and dangerous gorge
he turned his horse at a fast gallop.
Every living soul in Blood Camp was up before the
sun on the following morning. They wished to get a
start with the sun and see what new things the day
would bring forth.
Not long after the store had opened for the day, a
wagon drew up in which were seated the old fiddler,
Jase Dillenburger and two guards. All the fathers of
Blood Camp had gathered at the store to see the going
away of their neighbor Jason Dillenburger in the com-
pany of an officer of the law.
**Boys, the next time a man comes into your neighbor-
hood fiddling free, be careful," said Bull Jones, the
fiddler. *T've not fiddled here for more than a solid year
for nothing, boys. I didn't go out here on the hills dur-
ing the long summer days and plough and hoe corn with
no expectation of receiving a reward in the end. I've
milked every cow in the neighborhood, hoed most of the
gardens, planted sugar-cane and played the fiddle in the
store there by the week. Remember, boys, that somebody
66 GENA OF THE- APPALACHIANS
always has the fiddler to pay. Good-bye, boys, and good
luck," and the officer gave the signal to start.
Old Jase had sat still and sullen throughout it all. He
had been arrested by an officer of the law for moon-
shining, counterfeiting and several other violations. He
knew that he would now go to prison for a long term
of years, however light the sentence might be. He
knew, too, that he was old and that he would never live
to serve out his time and return to Blood Camp. There-
fore, as the wagon moved away, he turned his great
shaggy head and looked at Fen Green standing on the
store platform and called out :
"Fen, don't fergit, thet I want ye to have Genie,
Christmas, ef she don't die."
The shock of the arrest and the presence of an officer
in her home was too much for the little stout wife of old
Jase. Consequently, she gathered up a few of her
choicest belongings in a red tablecloth, threw the bundle
over her shoulder, and made her way back across the
mighty Snake back to her "people" on the Catawba.
"Never liked to live thar, a day of the thirty year no-
how," she said.
Many long, weary weeks went by at Blood Camp. Paul
Waffington, Fen Green and Emeline Hobbs watched over
the sufferer day and night with never a murmur. Each
day, each night, the faithful Waffington had followed the
old doctor to the gate and asked him the same question :
"How is the patient, doctor?"
Each time in reply the old dcotor had shook his head.
Business was hard pressing him to return to his Knox-
ville home, but he remained at the bedside of the sufferer.
Then, too, he had failed to make his annual visit back
to Kentucky to see the home folks. He had duly written
to his mother that she might know the reason of his
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 67
delay. But tonight he has received a letter from her
that burns him :
"Hazel Greex Ky., July 4th, 19—.
"Dearest Paul:
*'We are all deeply disappointed to learn that you will
not come home this summer. Your two brothers, your
little sister and your father, too, have all made mention
of it and expressed disappointment. I fear that you are
unwell — and are doing too much.
"We have looked forward with dehght to the time
when you would come and make us all so happy.
"Your little schoolmate, Imogene, inquires about you
most every week — and, Paul, she has grown so beautiful
during the past year.
"Your dear father is not well, and your sister says
to tell you to come home soon. I miss you so muchi,
my boy.
"Let no one, nothing, come between us, dear son, and
may Heaven bless my boy.
"Your devoted Mother."
He read the letter again. Getting up he studied the
ground between his feet for an answer. Then looking
up. he kissed the little note, put it into his pocket and
M-?1ked away towards the sick room.
"Yes, I will go. But — not — now," he said, as he went.
CHAPTER X
Through the Ever Changing Scenes
The days following the rescue of Gena Filson and
the period of her convalesence were trying ones for
the humble folks of Blood Camp. Without excep-
tion, every man from the bottom of his heart was
glad that the fingers of the law had finally reached out
and taken hold upon old Jase Dillenburger. Yet, for
fear, not a man had given expression to the fact to his
next neighbor.
When the news came from the sick-room, telling of
the change for the better, the convalescence period, then
the long suspense which had held the little hamlet in
awful reread so long was broken. Darkness dispersed,
and the people of Blood Camp adjusted themselves to
the new conditions, and turned again to honest toil with
contented min^s and grateful hearts.
Since Paul Waffington had again taken his leave, the
courts had decreed and or^''ered that the cabin and three
acres of land that belonsfed to old Jase Dillenburger
should pass to Gena Filson, and forthwith appointed
Slarie Pemberton her guardian and administrator.
Slade Pemberton was a hard man of the hills. He
had about "held his own" or "kept even," as he would
say, selling goods in Blood Camp, and perhaps, he had
been niggardly with it. He invariably tied the twenty-
five-cent bag of brown sugar at the top with about an
inch of cotton string, instead of wrapping the bag with the
string, as is the custom, thereby saving a few inches
of wrapping-string. But with Slade Pemberton twenty
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 69
inches of cotton string saved was twenty inches made.
More than one mother in Blood Camp could testify
that his pound was short and his yard niggardly.
Still Slade Pemberton was the store-keeper, and the
people looked up to him in a way, and respected him.
Since good luck had favored him somewhat lately, and
he had been able to settle his back accounts with his
dealers in the cities and thereby reopen his store for
business, he had tried ever so hard to deal justly with
all. But Slade Pemberton found it hard, even a strain
upon him, to put more than thirty-five and one-half
inches in his yard. But recently he had attended a few
sessions of the Sunday-school "Jist to hear the tunes —
not to take part," as he said. But the tunes seemed to
have done him good. The Sunday-school, the new adjust-
ment of life in Blood Camp, and one other great fact —
the fact that he was now the guardian of Gena Filson —
all seemed to take hold upon him until the little spark
of good that was in him flamed up and found expression
in deeds of kindness.
Without further delay, he had the cabin on the moun-
tainside cleansed of its filth and the greasy and germ-
laden furnishings burned. When all had been made
clean, the serviceable furnishings were arranged in their
places, a few new things bought and installed, and all
was made ready for the return of Gena Filson. Slade
Pemberton had even outdone himself in the matter of
kindness for Gena Filson. He arranged with Emeline
Hobbs that she should close up her own little house and
go with Gena on the mountain and be her housekeeper.
When the day arrived for Gena Filson to returr to the
cabin and make it her future home, misgivings were in her
heart. But Slade Pemberton closed and locked his store
and accompanied Gena and her housekeeper to the new
home. At the first sight of the old home, Gena shrank
70 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
back with dread. She thought of the awful past, of her
hard master Jase, whom she had seen standing in the
door a thousand times.
'*Ay, it's all different now, Genie, it's all different
now," said Slade Pemberton, as he led the way.
She came up and took a look through the little door.
She saw to her great surprise many changes in that
dismal little room. It looked so different, so clean and
really sweet, she thought. Then it was to be her home,
it was her home. And then she was to have a house-
keeper, and the best housekeeper ! And it all — all the
three acres of corn, potatoes and house — all her own.
"All for me — all mine!" she cried, with delight.
It was the first evening of September now. She had
been to the wood-yard, where she had filled her basket
with dry chips. Returning, she had built a fire for the
night was growing chilly. When the sun was high the
days were still warm and pleasant, but the nights were
growing cold and tonight there was dampness in the
room. Supper was over, and Emeline Hobbs was busy
putting away the dishes while she finished the fire.
The blaze leaped up and lent a cheerful look to the room
as she sat throwing on handfuls of chips.
Gena Filson was herself again now, and was growing
stronger each succeeding day. The rose was coming
again to her cheeks and she was truly grateful for her
existence. She smiled with satisfaction as she listened
to the stub, stub of Emeline Hobbs' wooden peg, as that
happy soul busied herself about the kitchen work hum-
ming the while "Am I a Soldier." Then, taking a
pailful of beans from a corner of the room, she began
stringing them for the morrow's cooking, as the figure
of a boy appeared in the open door.
"Howdy, Genie?"
"Why, how do you do, Boaz. Do come right in.
GENA OF THE APPAT.ACHIANS 71
Why, Boaz. this is the first • time you have come
to see me since — since I came back home. I'm so glad
that you have come. Have this chair, Boaz."
"Jist leave stan'. Iz Emeline here? I'd a come sooner,
but I knowM Emeline wuz here. I don't like her
much, you know. You know thet she wuz alius a
peckin' on me in Sunday-skule for sumthin' or 'nother.
Bui she ain't done it as much lately as she used to.
i\iaybe she's got a little more feelin' fur a feller or
sumthin'. I jist thot I'd come up and fetch you these
daisies, ef you wanted 'em. They're about all gone.
Found these over by the big stub over yander on Slade's
hill. I started up here more'n two hours ago, but as
J cum up, I saw an adder, and laid them daisies down
to kill 'em, an' I like to never foimd them daisies agin
when I got through with that adder. I wisht I may die,
ef I didn't hunt an hour fur 'em 'fore I found 'em.
But I found 'em."
"How can I ever thank you for the kindness you
show me? I do love daisies. You are a good boy,
Boaz, and a dear friend to me."
"Yes, you bet I'm your friend all right, Genie, an*
don't you fergit it," piped Boaz. "Course I'm jist a boy
an' can't help you like Mr. Waffington did when he was
here." He looked into the fire for a long time, turned
over his quid of tobacco, spat in the ashes and gave a
jerk at his head as he continued: "He's gone agin
now, though. But ef I wuz a man, though, I'd show
them rowdies. Fen Green an' them, how to impose on
you. Genie. Has Fen Green bin up here lately, Genie?"
"No, I think not, Boaz," she replied, and went on
breaking and stringing the beans.
"Well, he's acomin' ! I hear him atellin' the boys
down to the shop yisterday, thet he was agoin' to put
on his new celloi' collar and his new striped shirt and
72 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
fix up an' come upon the mountain tomorrow an' see
his future wife — Miss Genie Filson. The dang "
''Oh, Boaz! You mustn't! I didn't think that you
would "
''Well, I didn't. I didn't cuss. Genie. Not hardly,
I didn't. Don't count it this time. But you ain't afixin'
to marry Fen Green, air you. Genie?"
"Why, no, Boaz, I'm not fixing to marry anybody,"
she simply said.
"O — o — o — oh !" he said. His clenched fists relaxed
and he stood looking into the fire. Stooping to the floor,
he picked up the few beans that had been carelessly
dropped to the floor, threw them into the pail and said,
"It's gettin' dark — I got to go. I'll see you at Sunday-
skule nex' Sunday. Good-bye, Genie," and he disap-
peared through the door and went down the mountain
side like a flash. She ran to the door and looked after
him. Then presently there came to her ears from away
off down the mountain side the familiar tune:
"Ho-de-o-do, ho-de o de; ho de o do, ho diddle de
de." Her cheeks flushed crimson as she smiled, went in
and shut the door.
Gena Filson sits by her own fire in a speculative mood
tonight. Was she not happy, she thought. She was
now her own mistress in a sense, free to do in most
things — as she chose. The house and corn patches were
hers ; her savage old master, Jase, was now behind prison
walls making reparation in some degree for the stripes
that he had laid upon her. But since her recent illness;
since the lifting of the yoke from her neck; since the
new era in Blood Camp life, there appeared a pain in her
young heart not without a cause. Fen Green wanted to
marry Gena Filson, and she was aware of the fact. Oh,
no; she could never marry Fen Green. She knew not
the reason why, but then, that could never be. Then
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS ^Z
there was another friend, one who had so befriended
her. But she had never thought of marrying him — of
marrying anybody. Why, she thought, Paul Waffington
had never even hinted that he cared for her in the shght-
est — and much less thought of marrying her. But whose
name was it that was on her lips most during those long
hours of delirium? To whom did she then appeal con-
stantly for help? Who was it that she pulled down over
the bed and begged a hundred times over that he would
not let old Jase beat her again? Had no one ventured
to tell her that it was Paul Waffington ? But now, as she
sits looking into the fire, she thinks that she can faintly
recall the gentle touch of soft hands and a sweet reas-
suring voice bending over her, constantly telling her that
no harm should come nigh her. And as she reflects upon
it all tonight, she allows her heart to half wish that Paul
Waffington loved her. But perish the thought, she rea-
soned. Had he not returned to his native country to be
with those who honor and love him ? Perhaps tonight he
sits at the festal board smiling upon her whom he loves
and who he boasts as his equal. One who has many
graces, refinement, culture and sterling character. But
no matter, thought Gena Filson, he had befriended her,
?nd she resolved now to ever be grateful at least for his
friendship.
The fire on the hearth went out ; she arose and went
to her bed with the first gentle call of love throbbing in
her bosom.
On the following day Fen Green found her about the
flowers in the yard. She was preparing to take up many
of the flowers and remove them into the house for the
long winter. In all the style and glory of which Boaz
Honeycutt had told her Fen Green came.
''It's mighty pretty day, an' ye air alookin' well. Genie.
I'm glad ye air so well. I hope thet ye air well enough
74 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
to lis 'en with some sense to what I'm agwin' to say.
Now, will yer be fair?"
"Why, yes, Fen, I will always try to see things rightly,"
she saici, as she took up a large chrysanthemum near the
gate.
"Slade Pemberton is atalkin' of you agwin' off to
skule. Now you don't need no more skulin'. You've bin
to skule an' then your maw learnt you a lot at home. You
don't need no more learnin'. Too much learnin' roake^-.
wimen highfalutin. An' you kiiow theFliTwuz the will
"of j ase theTTlTC^a'n* you marry at Chrismus. Now what
you goin' to do ? You ain't agoin' to f orgit adyin' man's
request, air ye? He's bin took to prison, an' he's too old
to sarve out his time an' come back — so he's jist as good
as (jQQ. I won't never beat ye like Jase did, neither. I'll
alius keep ye plenty to eat an' ware. An' you know I
have a little farm up thar on the hill, with plenty of corn,
cabbage, taters and sich like. Now won't thet be better
than goin' ofi" to skule an' settin' yerself for somebody
thet ye can't git?"
"Fen, I'm not thinking of marrying anybody. You
have befriended me, and I want your friendship. 1 need
it, especially when friends are so few." She put down the
spade and looked away off down the mountain side.
Then slowly said : "No, Fen, we cannot marry. Here
in this valley below us are girls better suited to you than
I. Choose you a wife from among them, and prove your-
self worthy of her. As a friend you can help me and as
your friend I will try to help you."
"I have loved you an' waited fur ye — an' I ain't agoin'
to .eive ye up. I'll be yer friend, an' I'll be yer lover too —
an' I hope thet ye'll come to 3''our senses some day," he
called b?.ck Dvev his shoulder as he went down the moun-
tain side.
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 75
The time came when Slacle Pemberton was to close his
store and make another trip up on the mountain to the
cabin of Gena Filson. He went this time with a grave
face but a good mission in his heart.
"I'm not much of a man, Genie, but I'm disposed to
do the best for ye that I know. I wrote Air. Waffington
fer a little advice. I told him all about everything — thet
1 had been appointed your guardian an' that the house
an' all was your'n, and that you could sell off enough of
corn, beans and a few other things to send you to skule
off somewhere fur a whole year or nearly so. Now I've
got a letter here from him. He says that he will help you
to get a scholarship. Now, I come up to see you an' find
out from you ef it's your own mind fer you to go off to
skule. Now ef it is, then Slade Pemberton is goin' to
see to it thet you git to go. Ef you want to go oft' an'
study music an' a few other things, I say that you can
go. I'll buy in your corn an' other things mostly myself.
Emeline can go back to her own home while you are gone.
I'll git Uncle Laz to take care of the house while you
are gone. Now, Genie, you jist decide about this to suit
yerself. I'm jist Slade Pemberton, but I'm going to do
right by ye, Genie, ef I know what right is."
''Oh, I can hardly believe that you are saying it I" she
cried, joyfully. "Oh, if I could only go to school!"
Slade Pemberton left Gena Filson with her heart all
aflame that afternoon. She sat on the tuft of grass in
her own yard looking down on the hundreds of peaks be-
fore her, and wondered how it would all seem to be be-
yond the hills, within the limits of some great city; to
push one's way along through the mighty throngs m the
congested business districts. Then college ! She had seen
the pictures of colleges in the magazines and the cata-
logues — but to go to college ! that would be altogether
another thing. To get a real chance in life; to mingle
76 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
with the learned and refined people of the world, she
thought, could not fail to set her feet upon higher planes
of service and endeavor in the battle of human life.
At last the desire of Gena Filson's heart was realized —
she went to college. To her scanty little wardrobe were
added three cheap dresses that she and Emeline Hobbs
had hurriedly made by candle-light. All were at length
crowded into a little trunk that had long since seen more
service than its share, and Gena Filson climbed upon the
wagon seat by the side of Slade Pemberton one bright
morning, and was ready to leave for college.
Once more the hearts of all Blood Camp were made
sad. All had gathered at the store to see her off. Moth-
ers forgot, in their real sorrow, to still their crying chil-
dren as they stood on the store platform, holding them
in their arms — looking on with downcast hearts.
All had been made glad when the news flashed back
that Jase Dillenburger had been sent to prison. All had
again had much cause for thanksgiving, when they found
that the one beloved in the village above all others —
Gena Filson — was to make her home in the cabin in their
midst. But now that she was going away to be gone a
very long period of time, and perhaps never to return,
was too much for them. It made them all sore at heart.
And if she did return, would she be the same? She
would be above them. Fen Green had said.
"Be a good girl, honey, an' doan' yo' nebber go back
on de folks at home. No matter whar' yo' go nor what
yo' see, doan' nebber fergit 'em. De is mighty rough
folks, but ebber one has good hearts an' lobes yo'. An'
honey, doan' yo' forgit yo' ole black mammy. I'll be
stan'in' right ober der in de do'ah alookin' fo' yo' whin
yo' come. Good-bye, honey."
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 71
The wagon went up over the Httle hill and out of sight.
Fen Green jabbed the spur into his horse's side and shot
away in the opposite direction^ yelling as he went:
"Let 'er go — nobody cares."
For a time the others stood together looking at the
spot just where the wagon disappeared, as if they were
bound together under the spell. But after a time the
mothers rewrapped the babies in their shawls and re-
signedly returned to their homes.
Boaz Honeycutt remained upon the store platform
alone. He had not seen the wagon pass out of sight
over the hill. He had strained his eyes watching the
wagon as it neared the hill-top, and finally, when he
heard the words come ringing back to him:
"Good-bye, Boaz; don't forget me" — tears filled his
eyes and put the wagon out of his vision. For a long
time the little barefoot boy sat without a stir. Then,
getting up, he ran his hands down deep into the bottom-
less pockets of his coat and slowly walked away.
CHAPTER XI
The Thrill of College Life
It was the first day of the commencement exercises in
a grand old Southern college. A college that was
founded more than a hundred years ago, by the inde-
fatigable and persistent Doak. While on his westward
march in that remote ago he stopped, laid down his books,
took up the sword, and stood before his countrymen at
Sycamore Shoals and challenged those who were willing
to make the hazardous risk, and charge up King's Moun-
tain, to step out in line ! Inspired by the great educator's
patriotic call, brave and noble hearted men filled the line
in the twinkle of an eye. Thus it was that the im-
mortal Doak did his part to win that glorious victory.
But not even the glory of that great victory could di-
vert him from his path of plain duty before him. Hence
he again gathered up his books and continued his jour-
ney, through the mountain gaps and down into the gorges
he went, finally settling in the Valley of the Tennessee —
immediately founding a college and giving the remainder
of his life for the cause of education.
In a little room, with its snowy white walls and fur-
nishings, on this self-same college campus, we find today
the heroine of this humble narrative making final prepa-
rations for her humble part in the ninety-first commence-
ment exercises.
At first, the trial of college life had been a very hard
one for Gena Filson. To make the attempt of adapting
herself to college life was in a comparative way like
changing worlds with her. There were rules and regu-
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 79
lations until her head was in a whirl. There was a daily
programme — a time to rise ; a time to recite ; a time for
supper ; a time to retire — a time for everything it seemed !
System ! System was something new with her. Then she
had been repelled by the rebuffs of older and more ad-
vanced college students. The young ladies of better ward-
robes had at first passed her with haughty spirits. In
fact, nearly everyone had been guilty in speaking in a
jesting manner of the scanty wardrobe that was hers.
But as the days went by Gena Filson proved herself
equal to the arduous tasks that were before her. Inch
by inch, she won her way among them. First she won
a friend — then a second — the while holding on to the first
with ever so much care. In short, the application of Gena
Filson's mind to her work; the physical culture that she
daily received; system and the constant association of
cultured and refined teachers, was doing for her tl:e
same as it had done for many another young lady of
sterling qualities : was bringing her to womanhood with
the true graces and polish of a gentlewoman.
By sheer pluck she bad been able to hold out during
the first few months. Then she began to have an insight
of things — she saw the real meaning of it all. As the
year had progressed, there were musicales, society meet-
ings and class receptions. She rose up. did her best, and
met every occasion and enjoyed it all to the fullest ex-
tent of her capacity.
But today the college year was over, and the com-
mencement exercises was before her. Her first com-
mencement! Tonight her heart was happy and full, for
all were now her friends, and they honored her. She
gave a last touch to the pins in her braided hair before
she left the room. The tresses of gold that all Blood
Camp knew and loved so weU were no longer hanging
down her back. But they were done and arranged in
80 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
the latest style, "beautifully," as her best chum had ex-
claimed with emphasis only a half hour before when she
was finishing it. She took another look in the mirror
before going out. The soft blue dress that she wore,
made from some soft materials, matched the big blue
eyes, and her neck and throat were charming. She had
made that pretty dress herself during extra hours, and
she was truly proud of it. Drawing on a glove she
walked towards the door. The gloves ! Oh, yes ! Why,
she had received them at Christmas — as a present —
from some friend somewheres ; yes, a friend indeed —
Paul Waffmgton. For a moment she stood at the door,
thinking. She wondered would he know her now. Would
he think her changed — would he be pleased with her
personal appearance. The first and only letter that she
had ever received from him had been sent along with
those gloves. But then she had been so overjoyed at the
sight of the beautiful gloves that the note had been hasti-
ly read and put away. It was over there now in the ex-
cuse of a trunk that was hers. She slowly turned
about — went over and raised the lid and found it. Open-
ing the note she read :
"Hazel Green, Ky., December 23, 19 — .
Miss Gena Filson,
Tusculum College, Tenn.
My Dear Friend : — I am sending you by today's
mail a little Christmas remembrance. Please accept it
as a little token of respect and esteem. I learn that
you are doing well in Tusculurm My earnest desire
is that you will continue'^to be happy in your work.
"I have been somewhat delayed in returning to my
headquarters in Knoxville but expect to return soon.
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 81
"I shall be glad to pay you a visit at the college
whenever an opportunity is afforded.
"With many good wishes for you, I beg to subscribe
myself,
"Your friend,
"Paul Waffington."
She read it twice over, replaced it in the little trunk
and let down the lid. Five months had now elapsed
since the note was written, yet he had not come. The
college year was ended and commencement was now
in progress, still never a word. But Gena Filson had
no time to worry over such matters. She was happy
in her new world, her new work; then, too, she had
plenty of friends to claim her time now — friends
among the young men the same as among the young
ladies. Therefore, drawing on the other glove, she
went quickly out and shut the door.
Gena Filson had never been told the full extent of
the persistent efforts that Paul Waffington had made
with the college president in her behalf. She knew
nothing of the frequent letters that had passed be-
tween the college president and Paul Waffington
solely in her interest. Then the flippant and less
studious ones of the college had told her, that "a bird
in the hand was worth two in the bush," hence it was
beginning to lead her into the disposition of dismissing
uncertainties from her mind.
"Dismiss uncertainties — for the commencement at
least — and enjoy the present time while you may," one
had said to her.
In the gathering shadows of evening a carriage
rolled up and stopped before the college gate. Paul
Wafiington alighted in the face of one who seemed
to be the center of attraction with a group of young
82 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
men. It was a young man — this center of attraction —
a "Mr. Texas,'' as he heard one of the party address
him. His great square jaws and protruding black
eyes loomed up under a large derby hat. His suit
was of the flaring variety, with an extremely tight
fitting waist. But, above all, his hose with their white
polka dots each the size of a twenty-five cent piece
could not fail to attract attention, and he carried a
cane. Paul Waffington gave him a fair look as he
went by and passed on into the president's office.
When finally emerging from the president's office,
he met a merry and happy throng that was making
its way to the college chapel. He had meant to send
up his card and have at least a few minutes with
Gena Filson before the exercises. But a delayed
train had made great inroads upon his limited time,
hence his failure to do so. Notwithstanding the
failure of his intentions in that direction, still with
an air of some satisfaction he climbed the steps that
led to the college chapel and was ushered to a seat
near the center of the hall.
Everybody was happy tonight ! Laughter and fun ;
the swish of soft skirts ; the smell of roses — all told
a tale of happiness.
Then the programme commenced. It was the re-
cital of the musical department. What ! yes, the same !
Paul Waffington ran his eye down the programme
that he held — it stopped at the third number. He
dropped the programme to his knees and settled back
uneasilv in his seat. It seemed that he could hardly
abide the time, when she, in whom he had always —
from the very first — had been so deeply interested,
should appear upon the stage and render her part
of the programme. But finally the old president came
slowly forward, adjusted his nose-glasses with ever
GEN A OF THE APPALACHIANS 83
so much care and precision, and read from the pro-
gramme.
''The next number on the programme is
instrumental, by Miss Gena Filson."
But who was this coming forward? Gena Filson
was the name on the programme. Some mistake
sure, thought W'affington. Too bad that she should
be cheated out of her number. Some mistake
"Oh !" he suddenly cried out half aloud, as he saw
the young lady come forward and take her place on
the piano bench.
He sat dazed. Did his eyes fail him? He rubbed
them once, then looked again. She finished the num-
ber, turned and looked the audience square in the face
and left the stage. The hair! The eyes! Yes, it
was Gena Filson of Blood Camp. But oh, so different,
so changed, so beautiful !
He heard little of the remaining numbers of the
programme, lor he was busy Avitli his thoughts. But
by and by the music stopped, and the people were
crow^ding the rostrum to ofifer congratulations. Paul
Waffington made ofif with the others in the direction
of the rostrum, to offer his congratulations and to ex-
press his pleasure and belief in the ability of Gena
Filson to succeed. But as he drew near he saw no
other than the square-jawed, ill-dressed "Mr. Texas"
standing at Gena Filson's side, himself acknowledging
the congratulations of her friends as if she were prop-
erty individual. He stood there, showing his big teeth,
his arms almost breaking under the load of bundles,
boxes of candy and flowers that he himself had brought
to lavish upon her. He had taken her by the arm,
and was now leading her away, with his great head
poked right into her very face. Gena Filson dropped
the train of her dress as she turned to see who it was
84 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
that had spoken to her. She blushed a deep red, and
her lovely blue eyes sparkled as bright as the evening
star as she put out her hand and simply but gently
said:
"Mr. Waffington, is it you!"
"Accept my congratulations. I knew that it v^as
in you to succeed. I arrived too late to see you before
the musicale, and must go now, at once. Good-bye.
I knew that you would succeed. Good-bye." And
before she had time to present her friend, "Mr. Texas,"
Paul Waffington was moving away.
"Ugh!" growled Mr. Texas holding on to his bun-
dles. "Ah, do you know him, ah?"
"Yes, sir. He is a friend," the answer came softly.
"Ugh !" he again exploded, as he pulled his bundles
after him as he went through the door.
That night Gena Filson sat in her room alone and
very quiet, after all the lights had winked out on the
college campus. The bundles and boxes of candy and
flowers were piled about untouched. She cared not
a straw for candy and flowers now. Thoughts were
surging about in her troubled mind, reaching out be-
yond such trivial things as candy and flowers. Mov-
ing over to her window, she could see the great oaks
on the campus towering up in the moonlight. Only a
few moments ago she had sat under one of those oaks
and listened to the ejaculations and babblings of "Mr.
Texas." Yet she had heard but little of what he had
said to her there. The while she had found herself
continually trying to recall the meeting with Paul
Waffington in the earlier part of the night in the col-
lege chapel. Even to this present moment she found
herself unable to throw it off her mind. But Mr.
Texas was gone now, so was Paul Waffington. Then
suddenly she heard the lonely whistle of a locomotive
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 85
coming through the still night air to her ears, and
she knew that it was no other than the one that was
carrying Paul Waffington back to his city home at
lightning speed.
The happy faces that she had learned to know and
love so well during the school year would separate
on the morrow, each going back to home and friends.
She, too, must go. Back to the hills and Blood Camp
and to the little cabin upon the side of the mighty
Snake Gena Filson would go. For a long time she
stood at the open window and looked out into the
night.
"Yes, I did very wrong not to thank him. I should
have sent a note expressing my appreciation of the
pretty gloves. Why didn't I? Why didn't I?" she
cried as she stood in the night, wringing her hands.
Then hastily she laid a sheet of paper on the window
sill and scribbled something upon it in the moonlight,
folded it and laid it away in the little trunk.
The night was wearing away. Midnight had passed
when she finally lit the tallow candle that she was
accustomed to use in emergencies after the lights had
gone out. Then began the packing and the other prep-
arations for the going away on the morrow.
There were college colors and pennants to be taken
down from the walls and carefully packed. There
were trinkets and knots of ribbons, and pictures of
dear chums that were taken from their places and
packed away with care. Little paper fans, that were
covered with scribblings of some one that told a story
of a happy day. They were, indeed, souvenirs that
told of that happy college life (a time in life with
many without responsibility), souvenirs that tell the
story of many a happy jaunt. By and by, the last
thing was put into its place. The lid on the little
86 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
r
old trunk refused to go down at first, but in the end
yielding to pressure the key turned in the lock.
Gena Filson lay awake for a long time upon her
pillow that night. But when the belated messenger of
sleep did come to her, he found her tired and weary
3^oung mind pondering over the serious problem : If
after all, in the end, should happiness or remorse be
hers?
CHAPTER XII
Back to the Old Home and the Hills
Back to the noisy city and to hard work went
Paul Waffington. He turned over to the paper on his
desk and read the paragraph again. It was the column
of local items from Tusculum College, of the week
preceding the commencement of that institution that
was absorbing his attention in the paper just now.
'']\Ir. L. Texas won the tennis pennant," he read,
"who in turn in a beautiful little ceremony presented
it to his partner, ]^.Iiss Gena Filson." Still a little
further down the column another paragraph attracted
his attention. The paragraph ended by saying: "It
was a beautiful affair. Those who stood together
were and Miss Gena Filson and Mr. L.
Texas." He folded the paper and turned again to his
work, with the firm belief in his heart that the man
who tried for the hand of Gena Filson had an aggres-
sive and formidable rival.
The days following the end of the college year
were inspiring ones for the humble folks of the village
among the hills — Blood Camp. Slade Pemberton had
duly harnessed his mules into the wagon, driven down
to the little station and met the new collegian and her
trunk.
But would she be changed much? was the question
that was upon the lips of all Blood Camp. There were
free expressions all around, that she would return
from college "stuck up." And what w^as still another
SS GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
ghost, that overshadowed every heart in the village,
was the avowal of Fen Green and his friends that she
would certainly return "proud." But at length the
homecoming was over, and the new college girl re-
turned to the cabin upon the mountain side with
Emeline Hobbs again acting as her housekeeper.
The first few days after her return the little cabin
was overflowing with callers. Aged women; mothers
with bawling babies upon their hips, old men and all,
came to see and pay their respects to Gena Filson.
**Jist come up to see ye and take a good look at ye
an' say howdy," was the unanimous greeting of all.
"Yes, she's changed. Grow'd a lot. Prettier, too !
an' not a bit stuck up," was the final verdict of all.
But there was one certain individual who had been
a little slow in going to the cabin to visit its mistress
since she had returned, and that one was Boaz Honey-
cutt. Since her return, Boaz Honeycutt had been quick
to perceive the difiFerence in the dress of Gena Filson
and his own ragged clothes. The clothes of Gena
Filson were better now, and alas ! his own — rags they
had always been— were growing worse with the passing
vears.
However, he had a few times ventured up to the
cabin and had been each time cordially received. But
each succeeding time that he went he was the more
convinced that there was something — something that
he could not explain — fixing a gulf between their
friendship. It bruised and crushed his boy heart,
lacerated it and left it bleeding and sore. The power
of it bore down upon him with force, and left his
face the picture of despair. The only other friend
that he cherished next to Gena Filson was Paul Waf-
fington. And now, at the thought of his name, his
broken little heart went out over the high mountain's
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 89
fastnesses towards the far-away city and yearned for
his comfort.
Lately he had taken his position upon the grave-
yard hill to watch.
From his position on the grass plot he could com-
mand both a view of the store and of the road that
led into the gorge, or "out into the big world som'ers,"
as Emeline Hobbs had one day told him. Sometimes
he would get up from his place on the grass plot,
and as a diversion pass in at the little wicker gate
and busied himself plucking the weeds from the
mounds of two certain graves there. Then perchance,
if shouts came up from the store a hundred yards
away, that told of an extra good story that was being
told there by one of "the boys," he went down and
heard it through only to return at length and resume
his watch.
He had gathered up in his mind fragments of con-
versation that he had had with Gena Filson and Paul
Waffington, about college; the city with its alluring
charms, its street cars, steam trains and all. He
sniffed it into his nostrils again, and it burnt his soul
to know more about the big world beyond the hills.
It was growing late in the afternoon of Saturday,
July 2, 1904. Boaz Honey cutt lay in his accustomed
place on the knoll, stretched at full length in the grass
with his hands in his palms, spelling out the words
on a paper before him. Yes, Boaz Honeycutt had a
father, a man who was used to hard toil, a lumberman,
a man who felled the trees and by the hardest toil
dragged them to a distant market. But there were
seven other mouths to feed in the little shack that
Boaz Honeycutt called home, and hence gross neglect
had been the lot of the oldest child Boaz. The boy's
90 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
school clays had been of sufficient length to allow him
to hardly read and no longer.
"Congress, President Roosevelt, tariff," he labori-
ously spelled out. "Shucks ! I never seed nothin'
like none of them things ! Papers ain't fit fur nothin'
"cept to wrap calico in nohow," he concluded, brushing
aside the paper and laying his head down in the fresh
green grass.
The rider emerged from the gorge, rode up the little
hill slowly and with little noise.
"Hello! Boaz, is that you?" called out Paul Waf-
fington.
"Well, I wisht I may drap ded !" shouted the boy,
jumping up into the air with delight. He hurriedly
made a cross in the grass with his right foot, spat
into the center of it five times, jumped up into the
air again and bounded towards Waffington.
"By giggers, Pm glad to see ye. Git down an'
lemme take your hoss an' put 'im up an' feed 'im.
When all uv 'em find out your here they'll shore
be glad, I bet. The Sunday-skule's agoin'. Emeline's
well, Slade's sellin' more goods than he ever did —
no, Pll put 'im up myself — ten ears of corn and hay?
Well, Pll do it right, by giggers I will."
On Sunday morning the little cracked bell on the
school-house rang out in wheezen tones, warning the
people that the Sunday-school would begin an hour
earlier than was the custom. The founder of the
Sunday-school was to be present, and Emeline Hobbs
wanted to get a fair chance to show off the gracious
qualities of tiie school that by persistent effort she
had built up. She vv^as indeed proud of her Sunday-
school — boldly so — since Gena Filson had returned
from college and had been elected vice-president or
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 91
assistant superintendent and teacher of the intermediate
class.
At the appointed time, Emeline Hobbs took her
place at the front of the room, balanced herself on the
wooden peg, and looked at the little audience with a
grave countenance. Now and then she gave a quick
jerk at the white, stiff collar that was fast cutting
off circulation from her neck. Then she hopped over
and arranged the 'iittle class" on the left side of the
room. Then the *'big class" in the middle of the
room. After settling the "intermedium class" on the
fight, she made another final round to see that all
was ready to begin.
"Sh s! Sh ! You Emmy! Set down, Boaz!
Git ready, Carrie !" she made the entire command in
a single breath.
"Turn to 'Over There' in your song-books. Git
ready !" Then with a movement of both arms she led
off. She hopped over in front of the "big class" and
stood beating the air with her arms and thumping
the floor with her wooden peg, endeavoring to hurry
up those who were miserably dragging behind. Then
she swung over and spurred up the "little class" who
were piping away in some five or six different keys.
Then back to the center of the room she went, and
they all sang. The chorus swelled up and fairly lifted
the roof, and the blend of harmony was about the
same as the blending of kerosene and water.
Far back in the rear two or three good mothers,
with crying babies swinging to and fro on their knees,
were piping away in falsetto voices, coming out at
least a line behind all the others. But it was singing.
It was music — real worship, from the very bottom of
hearts of Blood Camp — and methinks He who con-
trols the destinies of all must have heard.
92 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
That day's session of the Sunday-school ended in a
blaze of glory with Emeline Hobbs, and she went
back to the cabin on the side of the mighty Snake
with her heart loving everybody — even Boaz Honey-
cutt was not forgotten.
But the glorious Fourth was drawing near, and
preparations were under way for the picnic at Blow-
ing Rock. Blood Camp did not understand in its
fullest meaning the day we celebrate. They had heard
little indeed of the great cities with their miles of
bunting, and the flag that we so dearly love floating
from every window and door on July the Fourth. Of
the fireworks ; the great military pageants and the
patriotic speeches from ocean to ocean, they knew
little. But Paul Waffington had fittingly made men-
tion of it in the Sunday-school, and the outcome of
his remarks was the proposed picnic to Blowing Rock
on the glorious Fourth.
The morning of the Fourth of July, 1904, was indeed
glorious ! The early sun had found the lunch ready
and tucked away in baskets and pushed back under
the seats in Slade Pemberton's wagon. There were
seats in the wagon for a party of eight. Fen Green
sat in the driver's place with Boaz Honeycutt and the
three Allisons occupying the next two seats. Paul
Waffington assisted Gena Filson into the rear seat and
was himself seated with her, thereby leaving but one
unoccupied seat in the wagon, and that by the side
of Fen Green, the driver.
"Attention everybody !" cried Waffington, standing
up in the wagon. ''Miss Hobbs is the chaperon of
this party, and rightly belongs to her the first seat
by the driver." Whereupon Emeline Hobbs allowed
herself to be assisted to the side of Fen Green.
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 93
The big, gray mules fairly flew over the rocks, and
the happy party laughed, babbled and sang snatches of
song as they went. The way led under the tall trees,
where the shade was deep. Then, coming out on the
spur of the mountain, the road wound in and out of
shallow ravines in beautiful turns. Some put out their
hands and plucked rhododendron sprays as they
bowled along. Stopping before a large clump of rho^j
dodendrons that were in full bloom,* they wove gar-
lands of the flowers, decorated the bridles and harness
and resumed their journey. Paul Wafiington plucked
a single daisy and roguishly fastened it in the hat of
Gena Filson, and for his trouble she blushed sweetly
and smiled upon him. On and on they went through
the crisp morning air, finally turning into the neigh-
boring village of Boone.
Yes, it was really Boone! a town named in honor
of Daniel Boone. Here within its borders was the
very spot where the great pioneer and man of iron
nerve had pitched his camp, brought down the needed
game with his rifle from the wilderness about him,
deftly prepared his evening meal, and went to his
sleep in the midst of the red man's country, with
little apparent fear.
"Three cheers for Daniel Boone!" cried Waffington,
and they were given with a will as they cleared the
village.
A long and beautiful stretch of mountain road was
now before them. Acres and acres of full-blooming
rhododendrons lent beauty and color to the scene.
On the left water, crystal clear, tumbled down over
*At this altitude (3000 to 4000 feet) the rhododendrons bloom
in late June and early July, instead of May and June, as in
lower altitudes.
94 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
*
the rocks and fell into pebbled bottomed pools below.
The cool morning breezes coming down from the
mountain tops laden with the invigorating smell of
the balsam brought shouts of joy from all.
*'Oh my everlastin' sweetterbacker !" yelled Boaz
Honeycutt, going over the side of the wagon and dis-
appearing in the direction from which they had just
come.
''What's the matter!" all cried excitedly and in the
same breath. Paul Waffington was climbing out of
the wagon to make investigation when Boaz was seen
coming back at a fast trot.
''Why, Boaz, what is the matter?" together all
cried again.
"Oh nothin'," replied the boy climbing into his seat.
"But you doan't git Boaz Honeycutt to pass no forks
of the road 'thout crossin' an' spitten'. No sire — ee !
It's bad luck. Onst I had a stone-bruise an' a sore
toe fur two year, summer an' winter, 'account not
crossin' an' spitten' when passin' the forks of a road.
No sire — ee, you needn't expect to see Boaz Honey-
cutt fail to cross an' spit whin he comes to the forks
of the road no more'n you 'spect to see a jay-bird
awalkin' on crutches."
The next turn of the road brought the party out
into the open again. The hot July sun came down,
and Emeline Hobbs moved uneasily in her seat.
"Gee, but I'm dry!" she finally bawled out.
"What did you say, Miss Hobbs?" inquired Paul
Waffington.
"I'm dry," she again bawled out at him over her
shoulder. "I salted the gravy too much this mornin'.
Gee, but I'm dry — want water," she finished.
"Oh! You're thirsty. Well, here is a house, and
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS <^-
a spring too. We shall all have some water here,"
was Waffington's reply.
Fen Green, the driver, brought the wagon to a stand.
Paul Waffington got out of the wagon, jumped the
fence and ran down the little path in the direction of
the spring.
"Good morning, madam," he said as he lifted his hat
and bowed to the lady standing with her pailful of
water near the spring.
''Does this spring belong to you, madam?" he in-
quired.
"Yes, sir."
''Well, if you please, madam, we would like to get
some water for the ladies of our party."
"All right," came the reply. "There's a gourd hangin'
up there on that stick, you can take 'em some water
in it, I guess."
"Fine spring you have here, fine farm, too, and
plenty of everything growing on it too. Your hus-
band must be a great worker, madam," he ventured
to say.
"He's dead," she simply said. "He died las' month,
an' left me and the children here to do everything."
"Too bad, too bad !" he said as he looked at her
in a kind and benevolent way.
"Yes, I wouldn't have minded it much," she called
nut after hirti as he went up to the road, "if it 'ed
a happened atter the crops wuz gathered."
The little company in the wagon had heard what
the woman had said, and giggled. Paul W^afifington
saved his ovv-n face with the blowing of his nose in his
handkerchief. But Boaz Honeycutt swelled up to the
daneer line, exploded, and said :
"Well, I wisht I mav die!"
CHAPTER XIII
The Passing of the Clouds
On the very top of the Blue Ridge, over against
Mt. Mitchell itself, the highest peak of the Appala-
chian system, nestles the little village of Blowing
Rock. The distinction of being a great summer resort
and at the same time boasting the highest altitude of
any town in the Appalachian system belongs to Blow-
ing Rock. A town of some five hundred inhabitants,
with six or seven summer hotels and long strings of
summer cotfages, its population is easily doubled
twice over during the hot summer season, by the rich
of the north and east, and the well-to-do from the
south. The northerner and southerner meet here for
a month's rest, not forgetting (albeit they come for
rest) to find time enough in which to exchange a
few shares of cotton-mill stock of the South for a few
shares of shoe-factory stock of the East.
The artist, too, is found in Blowing Rock. He
comes and finds both rest and profit. He walks out
upon the great rock — the Blowing Rock itself — which
projects horizontally out into space at the very apex
of the Blue Ridge, and looks out into the very coun-
tenance of the great Appalachian system of moun-
tains. He sees just in front of him Mt. Mitchell itself, in
all of its midsummer glory. To the right he beholds
Grandfather Mountain, the old man reclining in silent
sleep beneath sapphire skies — his aged head pillowed
upon the everlasting piles of stone, and his couch draped
in summer's mantle of emerald green. Then thousands
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 97
of feet down he beholds the plains of the valleys below
stretching away, beyond the vision of his eyes, on into the
endless cotton-fields of the South.
He has beheld visions before. But this is sublime!
From Tofty crags and peaks he has many a time looked
upon all nature, but here he is overcome by matchless
beauty. He snatches up his brush, and under the
inspiration the daubs of hard, cold paint begin to
warm on the canvas, and resolve themselves into
green valleys and peaks and shadows, a picture of the
truth.
Into this same Blowing Rock — not the Blowing
Rock on the page of a book — but the Blowing Rock
of reality, the little picnic party from Blood Camp
came bowling along, past the rows of summer cot-
tages and drew up at the great rock itself.
"Oh, how beautiful !" cried Gena Filson. "Oh, how
grand ! And the great mountains, how dearly I love
them r
The wagon was stopped under the trees, and the
mules were made comfortable. Then came recon-
noitering, exploration and the gathering of flowers
and ferns. Going to the wagon Paul Waffington
returned with a package in his hand, that he had
brought with him from the city. All were inquisitive
to know its contents.
"Giant firecrackers," he said. "Glorious Fourth !
Let us throw a few over the rock and celebrate."
Suiting the action to the word, he tore open the pack-
age, touched a flame to the fuse of one of the giant
crackers and threw it over the rock with all his might.
It went down, down, down through space — then
boom ! came the terrific report, and all screamed with
delight.
"Oh, do it again !" begged Gena Filson, clapping
98 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
her hands. Suddenly she arose, ran to the wagon,
drew from her basket a silk flag and came running
back, waving it and exclaiming:
"The glorious Fourth and the Stars and Stripes!
Hurrah, hurrah!"
"Hurrah I" came the thundering rejoinder from all.
During the exciting moments that followed, the
giant crackers became scattered on the ground. In-
advertently the chaperon. Miss Emeline Hobbs, sat
down among them. A match was struck and went to
Fen Green's pipe, then to the ground. In a wink it
touched the protruding end of the fuse of a giant
cracker on which sat Miss Emeline Hobbs. Before
any one could give warning — boom ! went the report
of the great explosion, and up into the air went
Emeline Hobbs, then down again on to the ground
with a thump. But, thanks to her lucky star, she
was unharmed, save a faint through fright.
Cold water and persistent rubbing soon brought
her again to normal conditions. With her head still
pillowed on Paul Waffington's coat, that he had shed
in a twinkle and made into a pillow for the occasion
she refused to get up until she had propounded the
following question :
"Oh, where am I? Am I in the valley or still on the
rock?"
"You'd better be a leetle more careful what you're
asettin' down on nixt time, Emeline," said Boaz. "Ef
you'd abin jist a leetle closer to the edge of the rock
whin thet thing busted, you'd a hit a farm 'bout a mile
below here, I reckon."
That was too much for her — and from Boaz Honey-
cutt. It fired her up. She jumped up and shook her
fist at the boy. But when Waffington put out his
hand in surprise she resumed her normal state and
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 99
stood in her place with the rest and watched the
giant crackers go down over the rock and explode.
Dinner time ! By a rustic seat and under a bower
of rhododendrons the dexterous hands of Gena Filson
led the other ladies of the party in spreading the
dinner. It was indeed a feast, a feast on the moun-
tain-top. There were pickles and slaw ; chicken salad
and cold ham ; stuffed eggs and many, many sweets.
Fen Green and Boaz Honeycutt tried a little of all and
pronounced it all good. When dinner was over, the
baskets went back to their places under the seats in
the wagon. The mules had just been given their
corn and hay when the wheels of an approaching
carriage was heard. The carriage rolled up and
stopped a few yards distant from the party.
''Ah, how do you do, ah, Miss Filson. Ah, may I
speak with you a moment, ah?" It was no other than
"Mr. L. Texas" himself, and Paul Waffington ground
his teeth.
''Why, how do you do, Mr. Texas," said Gena
Filson, going over to the carriage and offering her
hand.
Waffington was dazed. His heart nearly failed him.
What did it all mean? What did he mean by thrust-
ing himself into the happiness of this little picnic
party? Did she know that he was coming? Why,
as a matter of course, she must have known. Why,
then, had she not told him?
She came back. Walking slowly she finally stopped
within a few feet of the party and said :
*T beg that you, Mr. Waffington, and the others
will excuse me for a few minutes."
"Why, certainly^ certainly. Miss Filson," he replied,
almost against his will.
100 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
She returned to the carriage and was assisted in
by Mr. Texas and disappeared.
Forty-five minutes had elapsed when the carriage
again appeared, and Gena Filson alighted and bade
Mr. Texas good-bye.
"Well, by giggers! Who is thet jug-headed dude,
Genie?" demanded Boaz, as she came up.
'*Boaz!" intervened Waffington. "You should al-
ways speak politely of gentlemen — of strangers."
Then the party separated for a time. Boaz and
Fen Green went off in the direction of one of the
big hotels, while the three Allisons and Emeline
Hobbs chose another direction. Paul Waffington was
left in the company of Gena Filson. He sat away
out on the projecting rock with his feet hanging over
the edge, looking out on the matchless scene before
him.
"Oh, is it not grand!" ventured Gena Filson.
"Indeed it is a grand sight to behold," calmly re-
plied Waffington.
He broke ofif a bit of stick and threw it over the
rock. At first it poised in the strong breeze that came
up from the valley below, but finally tilted on end
and began slipping away thousands of feet downward,
towards the valley. He mechanically threw out an-
other stick in the air and raised his head to speak.
"Doesn't the wind bear it up beautifully?" she in-
tercepted him.
"Yes, rather," came the quiet reply. "But I must
confess that it reminds me of insincere friendship.
There are those in this big world who are treacherous,
like the wind with the stick. They bear us up beau-
tifully at first, then upon their strength we begin
to build; but in the end, they betray the trust and
dash us to pieces on the rocks below."
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 101
"But are my friends like that, Mr. Waffington?"
she painfully asked.
"Well, I'm not a judge. I don't know who are
your best friends."
"Well, may I ask, is your friendship like the stick
and the wind, Mr. Waffington?"
"No, Gena," he said quietly. Then after a long
silence he threw the remaining stick that he held in
his hand far back on the grass and finished, "Once
a friend, always a friend with me — at least nothing
less." Then his heart cried out and begged him to
tell her all, but his voice failed to do his bidding.
"Well, I wisht I may die, ef I didn't think I'd slip
upon on you all an' ketch you atalkin' courtin' talk,
but I didn't, I reckon," piped Boaz Honeycutt, as he
bounded out from behind a clump of rhododendrons.
They both blushed, and she smiled as her eyes met
Waffington's and said :
"Why, Boaz!"
"All aboard!" bawled out Emeline Hobbs; "all
aboard for Boone an' Blood Camp — all aboard!"
The wagon was made ready for the homeward trip.
Once more Waffington led the little company out
upon the Blowing Rock, and Gena Filson waved the
silk flag as Waffington commanded:
"Three cheers for the glorious Fourth."
The cheers went ringing out into space with a roar
that all but awoke the aged grandfather from his long
sleep on his green-mantled couch in the distance.
The sun was still an hour high when the party in
high spirits returned to Blood Camp. At the store
they rose up in the wagon, gave three last cheers for
the glorious Fourth, and disbanded.
"Fust Foth of July I ever seed, an* I wisht I may
102 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
die, ef we aint agoin' to have one next year again," de-
clared Boaz Honeycutt as he went off in the direction
of his home, to tell his sisters and brothers of the
pleasures of the day.
Paul Waffington led Gena Filson up the mountain
side to her cabin home and was saying good-bye.
He was going back to his city home on the morrow.
He had experienced, after all he thought, the best
day of his life. But at the thoughts of going away
his heart grew heavy.
"But won't you sit down, Mr. Waffington? It is
early yet," Gena Filson gently said. "We can sit here
in the fresh evening air, here on these boards," she
finished.
"Thank you, I will sit down," and seated himself
by her side.
He looked upon the lovely face of Gena Filson in
the bright evening sun, and reasoned with his heart
again. Tut! tut! she belonged to another. But how
did he know so much? He had failed to learn the
truth while at Blowing Rock. Why had he not the
speech to say the things that were in his heart now?
Why, Paul Waffington could recall the time when,
in college debate, he had stood upon the floor and
fearlessly battled against the best. Scores of times
he had stood before public audiences and juggled
with words and themes without embarrassment. Yes,
he had stood in the very face of death, so far as he
knew — not a rod distant from where he now sat —
and shot out his fist into the face of old Jase Dillen-
burger, expecting nothing but death in the end — and
had done it all without a tremor. But how was it
now, that a w^oman, a daughter of the simple hills
could without a single command hold him dumb?
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 103
He turned his head and looked away off down the
mountain side as he turned it all over in his mind
agam. Suppose that Gena Filson was the daughter of
Lucky Joe. She was now his equal. She had already
proven that she had a wonderful brain capacity ; that
she could succeed, he had said so to her himself at
the college. Suppose that her father had been a
bandit — a moonshiner. Many another have yielded to
the same temptation. But still there remained with
her the memories and the sweet benediction of a
kind and gentle mother. A mother who, when her
heart was young, came into the hills with good blood
in her veins, of sterling character, polished and re-
fined.
But after all, he thought that he could have been,
perhaps, long since mated to his mother's choice,
Imogene. She was of his station in life, he had been
told. Culture, education, refinement, jewels and
money were hers. But beyond the reach of the jewels
and moneys Paul Waffington's heart reached out and
yearned for the true love of his heart, and he finds
it in Gena Filson by his side.
He looked upon the face of the woman at his side
again, and it was fair. She was born and bred in that
congenial southern clime, among the beautiful green
hills, where crystal streams purl and ripple on forever;
where sweet song-birds dwell; where acres of wild
flowers come forth in summer time, only for bees to
plunder and birds to swing and sway in tuneful song. **I
must know all," he cried to himself, and his voice
yielded to his heart's desire.
''It's been seven years since I first saw you there
in the snow, Gena. You were thirteen then. And —
then — old Jase managed to get you, and shifted the
104 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
hard burdens from his own shoulders to yours. And
then 1 came and saw you burning up there on the
bunk with fever. Then I took you away, and, well,
I thought I was doing right!" He paused and looked
away to the west, and saw the sun sinking down into
fathomless seas of purple and gray. Then he busied
himself pushing the stem of a daisy into the worm-
holes in the board on which they sat, as he went on,
"And then Jase went to prison."
"Yes, and it saved us both, Paul." Her hands flew
to her lips and held them, as if they had allowed
something that was terrible to pass them. **Oh, for-
give me, forgive me," she cried. "I didn't "
"That's it, that's it, Gena. For seven years I have
yearned for you to simply say Paul. I go away to
morrow, Gena, and I just as well have it out and be
done with it. The first time that I ever saw you, it
was there in the snow and the storm ; I loved you, and
I love you still. Tonight I want to know all. Tell
me, Gena, will you be my wife:"
He lifted his eyes to hers as he finished. In the
short interval of time his heart seemed to be dropping,
dropping, dropping down through fathomless depths
of space. The sun was gone now. But the big blue
eyes at his side looked out over the mountains and
watched the purple clouds with their rims of gold.
Then they turned their vision upon him, and welled
up with tears as she whispered:
^'Yes."
/ Under the starry dome of night he gently drew her
/within his arms, and there, together, they finished
I the bridge of love that spanned the present and
Veeached into the future, that thitherland.
CHAPTER XIV
' Love Seeks Its Own
But few, indeed, ever learned the truth of what it
cost Gena Filson to withstand the persistent and irri-
tating attentions of her would-be friend and admirer,
Mr. L. Texas, during her second college year. He
had approached her heart, traversing every conceiv-
able avenue; yes, he had tried her very spirit as well
and her heart.
He was rich, the girls had told her. He had diamonds.
What feminine hand had not longed and wished for
a diamond? But through all the consuming fire the
heart of Gena Filson never failed her, and at the end
of the second college year she went back to her native
hills carrying her certificate from the department of
music with dignity, to make good the day of her
promise.
It was a certain bright afternoon in October that
Slade Pemberton gave away the little bride in the
cabin to Paul Waffington. Slade Pemberton had been
her guardian during these latter years, and he had
done his part by her, much better than had been ex-
pected of him. And as he stood up in the cabin and
gave the sweet little bride away, he could not but
believe that she was passing into the hands of the
noblest man that ever lived.
Then came the going away. Aye, the tears that
were shed on that October afternoon! Not tears
alone from the eyes, but tears from human hearts
106 GENA OF Tl^E APPALACHIANS
as well, were those that Blood Camp shed, as the bride
slipped away with the man she loved.
Into the great and mighty city with its whir and
clank of machinery, and its passing throngs, Paul Waf-
fington took his bride. Up marble steps and into re-
ception rooms of friends he led her, presenting his
beautiful young wife without the shadow of a fear
of reproach from anyone.
A half dozen years of happy married life passed
quickly by with Paul Waffington and his beautiful young
wife. Throughout the changing years, the young wife
stood firmly by the side of the man she loved and helped
him to earn the money that was to build their home nest,
and now the funds were all in hand, and their happiness
was full.
"Oh, it will be so sweet to dwell in our own dear home,
Paul, and with you! You have toiled so long and so
hard," she finishing stroking his hair.
"Yes, Gena, dear, it shall be the sweetest nest in all
the world," came the reassuring reply.
"Now, I think we can afford to see the Exposition,
Paul, dear. And this is the initial Exposition, too," she
excitedly exclaims.
Under the arch of the great Appalachian exposition
he led her. It was now in all of its glory — running
at its best — was this great exposition in his home city.
Under the glare of millions of electric lights and in
the din and thunderous roars of rival performing
shows they were happy. There were assembled the
stupendous and gorgeous pyrotechnical displays of
the world, the exhibits from the most wonderful
mountain country in America. There were the air-
ships and the races by day. There was the moonshine
GEN A OF THE AFPALACHIANS 107
still! Gena had seen a moonshine still before, but she
saw it all again and was happy.
Long before the wheels of the great exposition had
run down and stopped, Paul Waffington and his bride
were established in their own little home in a quiet corner
of the city, there to dwell in mutual love.
But each succeeding summer the thoughtful Waf-
fington carried his bride back to the village of the hills,
and they spent their vacations in the cabin on the side
of the mighty Snake. A piano and new furnishings
found their way into the little cabin. A porch was
added to the front and a dexterous hand had planted
jessamine and wisteria vines at the corners. When
each succeeding vacation period was over. Uncle
Lazarus was appointed caretaker of the house during
the long winters, and the following summer made
ready for the coming of the master and mistress.
And now, kind reader, let us together turn over the
leaf and take a look at the last picture in this humble
narrative.
Six years have now rolled their cycles into the
past since Gena Filson became a bride and went away
to her city home. And with the passing of the years,
many a change have been wrought in the village of
the hills — Blood Camp. Fen Green long since offered
his heart and farm to Emeline Hobbs, and that in-
dividual promptly accepted. Notwithstanding, the
new duties of wife that devolved upon her, she still
continues to hold on to the helm of the Sund; y-school
with a firmer grasp than before. Over near Slade
Pemberton's store stands a little church now. It
stands with its steeple pointing into the blue above,
a monument to Paul Waffington and the faithful
Emeline Hobbs. On Sunday mornings its bell rings
108 GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS
out from the steeple, proclaiming that the days of
moonshining are over in Blood Camp, and calling the
people down from the hills to worship God.
The mark of Father Time is beginning to tell upon
some of the fathers of Blood Camp now. And the
children of but a few years agD are now young men
and young women. The strokes of the blacksmith's
sledge upon his anvil in the shop are growing fainter
now and farther between. And like the aged sledge
its master has swung for years, the blacksmith, too, is
growing old.
Summer is now over again. The first day of Sep-
tember is come, and Paul Waffington and his little
family are making ready to return to their city home.
In the heat of the summer they had journeyed
hither, from the grime and smoke of the torrid city,
and in many a jaunt among the hills they have been
refreshed in body and soul. Now they would return
thither, with a more elastic step and a double portion
of sweetness that will not fail to permeate the suc-
ceeding years.
The carriage moves slowly away from the store.
'*Good-bye Emeline, Fen, Daddy Slade, Aunt Mina
and all," called Gena. "Good-bye, Boaz, and remem-
ber, that you are to come to live with us in the city
at Christmas. Good-bye."
The human hearts of all Blood Camp again welled
up with sadness and they found it hard to say "good-
bye" in cheerful tones.
When the chestnut grove on the hill was reached,
the carriage stopped. Uncle Lazarus stood at the
wicket gate. Paul Waffington led the way through
the gate and stopped before two well-kept mounds
that lay side by side. He removed his hat and looked
upon the mounds with reverence. Then taking a
GENA OF THE APPALACHIANS 109
wreath from the hand of little C aged four, h«
placed it upon the mound to his right. A second
wreath he took from the tender hands of little H ,
aged two, and silently laid it upon the mound to hif
left.
"Whose graves are these, papa?" inquired little
C , aged four.
"They are the graves of your grandfather and your
grandmother, my son," he replied breaking the long
silence.
He took the youngest child in his arms as he led
the way over to a neglected corner of the graveyard.
Before a grave of large dimensions that showed much
neglect they paused. The little family stood together
and looked upon the mound a long time. Then the
wife and mother went forward, plucked away some
weeds and laid upon the mound the wreath she car-
ried. Paul Waffington stooped and parted the weeds
and glanced at the marble slab that bore the simple
name :
JASON DILLENBURGER.
As the little company went out the black man put
out his bony hand and said good-bye. He closed the
wicket gate and the carriage moved away. The others
at the store had looked upon the scene with aching
hearts. For the seventh time Boaz Honeycutt sat in
his rags on the store platform and saw the idol of
his heart disappear over the hill. The muscles in his
face twitched as he sat in his rags and strained his
eyes at the last sight of the carriage. Then suddenly
a lady's hand was thrust out of the carriage waving
a handkerchief. Again the boy's face twitched with
deep emotion, for he knew that the hand was the
hand of Gena of the Appalachians.
(The End)
(