ght and accessible to the housewife's little
sedge broom. Linen and small articles of apparel are stored in a chest
or a cheap little tin trunk or two. Most of the family wardrobe hangs
from pegs in the walls or nails in the loft beams, along with strings
of dried apples, peppers, bunches of herbs, twists of tobacco, gourds
full of seeds, the hunter's pouch, and other odd bric-a-brac interesting
to "furrin" eyes. The narrow mantel-shelf holds pipes and snuff and
various other articles of frequent use, among them a twig or two of
sweet birch that has been chewed to shreds at one end and is queerly
discolored with something brown (this is what the mountain woman calls
her "tooth brush"--a snuff stick, understand).

For wall decorations there may be a few gaudy advertisements
lithographed in colors, perhaps some halftones from magazines that
travelers have left (a magazine is always called a "book" in this
region, as, I think, throughout the South). Of late years the agents for
photo-enlarging companies have invaded the mountains and have reaped a
harvest; for if there be one curse of civilization that our hillsman
craves, it is a huge _tinted_ "family group" in an abominable rococo
frame.

There is an almanac in the cabin, but no clock. "What does man need of a
clock when he has a good-crowin' rooster?" Strange as it may seem, in
this roughest of backwoods countries I have never seen candles, unless
they were brought in by outsiders like myself. Beef, you must remember,
is exported, not eaten, by our farmers, and hence there is no tallow to
make candles with. Instead of these, every home is provided with a
kerosene lamp of narrow wick, and seldom do you find a chimney for it.
This is partly because lamp chimneys are hard to carry safely over the
mountain roads and partly because "man can do without sich like,
anyhow." But kerosene, also, is hard to transport, and so one sometimes
will find pine knots used for illumination; but oftener the woman will
pour hog's grease into a tin or saucer, twist up a bit of rag for the
wick and so make a "slut" that, believe me, deserves the name. In fact,
the supply of pine knots within convenient distance of home is soon
exhausted, and anyway, as the mountaineer disdains to be forehanded, he
would burn up the knots for kindling rather than save any for
illumination.

Very few cabins have carpet on the floor. It would hold too much mud
from the feet of the men who would not use a scrap