Hn tbe TKHooSs wltb tbe 3Bow 



by liberal barns, had a thrifty, generous 

 look. 



There was a spring of crystal limestone 

 water bubbling under the hill, down to 

 which a path zigzagged from the kitchen. 

 A milk-house of rough masonry with a 

 mossy roof nestled among willow-trees 

 hard by. This farmstead, however, was 

 the last outpost of generous living and up- 

 to-date comfort. The realm of log cabins 

 and mountain civilization lay beyond. I 

 felt the change when I heard a plowman 

 sing out, " Way hare ! " to his lazy horse. 

 The mountaineers all say " Way hare " for 

 " Whoa haw " when driving their teams in 

 the field ; and some of them yell out a coun- 

 trified oath, enforced with a mighty jerk of 

 the single rope that serves as driving-line. 

 You may smile, but to me there is some- 

 thing ineffably comforting and sweet in 

 those bucolic sounds — the lowing of cows, 

 the bleating of sheep, the crowing of 

 cocks, and the " Gee-erp ther'— way hare ! " 

 of the lank and honest mountaineer. 



Entering the foot-hills, I slackened my 

 pace, looking about for an eligible place 

 H 209 



