A WEEK ON WALDEN'S RIDGE. 179 



With the exception of three servants at the 

 hotel, I saw none but whites. Walden's 

 Eidge, although stanchly Union in war-time, 

 and largely Republican now, as I was told, 

 is a white man's country. I had gone to 

 bed one night, and was fast asleep, when I 

 was wakened suddenly by the noise of some 

 one hurrying up the stairs and shouting, 

 "Where's the gun? Where's the gun? 

 Shorty's been shot!" "Shorty" was the 

 colored waiter, and the speaker was a gen- 

 eral factotum, an English boy. The colored 

 people — Shorty, his wife, and the cook — 

 had been out on the edge of the woods be- 

 hind the house, when three men had fired 

 at them, or pretended to do so. It was ex- 

 plained the next morning that this was only 

 an attempt (on the part of some irresponsible 

 young men, as the older residents said) to 

 " run the niggers off the mountain," — after 

 what I understood to be a somewhat regular 

 custom. " Niggers " did not belong there ; 

 their place was down below. If a Chat- 

 tanooga cottager brought up a colored ser- 

 vant, he was " respectfully requested " to send 

 him back, and save the natives the trouble 

 of attending to the matter. In short, the 



