Musings of the South 1 8 1 



walls. The sun was brilliant — just the scenes and 

 conditions I had been longing for. On opening my 

 camera — my beautiful, precious camera — it looked 

 like a wreck. I had a chest made for my instru- 

 ments and plates that was supposed to be wrecker- 

 proof. The chest must have been dropped from a 

 height on a rock. The lock and hinges were 

 twisted off, and I supposed that I was defeated. 

 But it was not hopeless after all, and I soon got it 

 into working condition, then began to climb and 

 crawl and tug for position. I had nothing to eat, 

 and the air was cold on those heights, but I was 

 enthusiastic every minute. The next day I hunted 

 up Mr. Cory, our Sunday-school missionary, and 

 Mr. Moore, a recent McCormick graduate, pastor 

 there, and with a large lunch basket, Mr. Cory 

 bringing another, returned to the canon. Glorious 

 day! I came away with two dozen eight-by-ten 

 exposed plates, skinned shins, briar-raked hands, 

 knees blue with bruises, the happiest old man in 

 Tennessee. I taught Cory and Moore the art of 

 mountain climbing. Cory was directed to get 

 secure footing, Moore to stand in hand reach below 

 him, and I below Moore. Then the camera was 

 passed up, "Now, gentlemen, we are to take double 

 wrist grips and all pull. ' ' It worked beautifully, but 

 Cory thought it might be well to reverse the posi- 

 tion. He could not see exactly how my pulling 

 helped the rest of the chain, but I did. I was giv- 

 ing the rest my "moral support." 



