A l^housand'Mile Walk 



fall is obtained, a thing easily done in the 

 mountains. 



On Sundays you may see wild, unshorn, un- 

 combed men coming out of the woods, each 

 with a bag of corn on his back. From a peck to 

 a bushel is a common grist. They go to the mill 

 along verdant footpaths, winding up and down 

 over hill and valley, and crossing many a rho- 

 dodendron glen. The flowers and shining leaves 

 brush against their shoulders and knees, occa- 

 sionally knocking off their coon-skin caps. The 

 first arrived throws his corn into the hopper, 

 turns on the water, and goes to the house. 

 After chatting and smoking he returns to see 

 if his grist is done. Should the stones run 

 empty for an hour or two, it does no harm. 



This is a fair average in equipment and ca- 

 pacity of a score of mills that I saw in Tennes- 

 see. This one was built by John Vohn, who 

 claimed that he could make it grind twenty 

 bushels a day. But since it fell into other hands 

 it can be made to grind only ten per day. All 

 the machines of Kentucky and Tennessee are 

 [36] 



