174 Musings by Camp- Fire and Wayside 



South has over his competitors elsewhere, places 

 him out of reach, above, and ahead of them. It is 

 all right for him to keep his machinery moving 

 twenty-four hours to the day if the market demands 

 it, but he can afford to run three shifts of eight 

 hours each. We would like to see him work up 

 every ounce of cotton raised on this side of the 

 water. 



The Tennessee here is a noble looking river, 

 although along the low valley, which overflows in 

 the spring freshets, there is malaria. We drove up 

 to a dilapidated house where the children were so 

 plenty it seemed like a school. The air was chill, 

 and Mr. Bitzer, like all these Southerners, found it 

 too bracing for comfort, so we went in for a warm. 

 There was a low fire, but no wood cut, so I swung 

 an ax on a dry elm log — you know how that chops — 

 and got a piece off it, kind of "chawed" it off with 

 the ax. "How many children have you?" the pater 

 was asked. "Six or seven, so fur," he answered. 

 It seems he had not kept tally on a notched stick, 

 so he was not exactly sure. One of the boys out- 

 side asked, "How much do you charge for takin' 

 pictures?" "Nothing." That boy slid into the 

 house quickly to his mother. She came out and 

 said she had been saving and hoping for money 

 enough to have pictures of her children, but it 

 seemed as if she never could get it. She wanted 

 seven copies, one for each child, so that if any of 

 them should die there would be a remembrancer. 



