A WEEK ON WALDEN'S RIDGE. 179 



With the exception of three servants at the 

 hotel, I saw none but whites. Walden's 

 Riclge, although stanchly Union in war-time, 

 and largely Eepublican 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 



