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 “knob land” 
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 
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