stream, fed by a copious spring, and
over it was built the inevitable spring-house. A post, driven into the
bank by the stream, supported a tin wash-basin, and here we performed
our ablutions. The traveler gets to like this freedom and primitive
luxury.

The farm of Egger produces corn, wheat, grass, and sheep; it is a good
enough farm, but most of it lies at an angle of thirty-five to forty
degrees. The ridge back of the house, planted in corn, was as steep as
the roof of his dwelling. It seemed incredible that it ever could have
been plowed, but the proprietor assured us that it was plowed with
mules, and I judged that the harvesting must be done by squirrels. The
soil is good enough, if it would stay in place, but all the hillsides
are seamed with gullies. The discolored state of the streams was
accounted for as soon as we saw this cultivated land. No sooner is the
land cleared of trees and broken up than it begins to wash. We saw more
of this later, especially in North Carolina, where we encountered no
stream of water that was not muddy, and saw no cultivated ground that
was not washed. The process of denudation is going on rapidly wherever
the original forests are girdled (a common way of preparing for crops),
or cut away.

As the time passed and there was no sign of supper, the question became
a burning one, and we went to explore the kitchen. No sign of it there.
No fire in the stove, nothing cooked in the house, of course. Mrs. Egger
and her comely young barefooted daughter had still the milking to attend
to, and supper must wait for the other chores. It seemed easier to be
Mr. Egger, in this state of existence, and sit on the front porch and
meditate on the price of mules and the prospect of a crop, than to be
Mrs. Egger, whose work was not limited from sun to sun; who had, in
fact, a day's work to do after the men-folks had knocked off; whose
chances of neighborhood gossip were scanty, whose amusements were
confined to a religious meeting once a fortnight. Good, honest people
these, not unduly puffed up by the brick house, grubbing away year in
and year out. Yes, the young girl said, there was a neighborhood party,
now and then, in the winter. What a price to pay for mere life!

Long before supper was ready, nearly nine o'clock, we had almost lost
interest in it. Meantime two other guests had arrived, a couple of
drovers from North Carolina, who brought into the circle--by this time
a wood-fire had been ki