A Thousand-Mile Walk 



[Georgia], which I passed in the forenoon, 

 seems a shapeless and insignificant village, but 

 grandly encircled with banded hills. At night 

 I was cordially received by a farmer whose 

 wife, though smart and neat in her appearance, 

 was an inveterate smoker. 



September 22. Hills becoming small, sparsely 

 covered with soil. They are called &quot;knob land&quot; 

 and are cultivated, or scratched, with a kind 

 of one-tooth cultivator. Every rain robs them 

 of their fertility, while the bottoms are of 

 course correspondingly enriched. About noon 

 I reached the last mountain summit on my 

 way to the sea. It is called the Blue Ridge 

 and before it lies a prospect very different 

 from any I had passed, namely, a vast uniform 

 expanse of dark pine woods, extending to the 

 sea; an impressive view at any time and under 

 any circumstances, but particularly so to one 

 emerging from the mountains. 



Traveled in the wake of three poor but merry 

 mountaineers an old woman, a young woman, 

 and a young man who sat, leaned, and lay 

 [44] 



