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 COLLECTION OF 
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 ^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) 
 

(