Feb. 15, 1902.I 
N 
A Walk Down South.— XVI. 
My directions in regard to leaving Covington were 
confusing, but after making an unnecessary loop and get- 
ling off on a side street I at last reached the first main 
road J was to follow. A mile or so out of town I found 
a fork in the road at which I sat down to await directions. 
J followed the line indicated by a man's finger, and came 
to another fork. I remembered somebody saying I'd see 
a farmhouse down across a field. Here was such a farm- 
house. I followed what seemed to be a mere lane, and 
sure enough there was a big covered bridge over 
the main branch of the James River. It is called the 
"country bridge." It issuspended by a system of timber 
X's, and is painted white. I crossed it, and getting 
directions at a log house from some hog killers I began 
a climb that lasted for hours, with a nub to think about. 
The man who gave me my directions had lost two houses 
by fire. The first, a large one, the second a fair sized 
one. He lives in a cabin with but a single room in it 
now. Two great stone chimneys mark the site of the 
first dwelling, one that of the second. The look and ges- 
ture of the unfortunate man showed how heavily his 
disasters told on him. He replied to his wife's always 
smiling greeting with a wan grin. 
My road, as usual, followed a run. It led up the moun- 
tainside in a woods growth from the dooryard of the 
burned dwellings. There were no more forks to bother 
me for miles at least. To remember and take the "first 
road to the right, next to the left, then past Sam Collins's 
to the old schoolhouse and through Peters's farm to 
where Alec Kinter lives, etc.," is something of a task — 
one that must be^performed daily unless one is fortunate ~ 
enough to strike roads with no forks. 
The road was a crooked one^ — more so than that one 
which lcdme down into Covington. It was up hill, more- 
over, every step of the way. After hundreds of yards of 
walking. I could look down on the road which I had 
followed long before;; and I could see, high in the woods, 
perhaps from the same point where the road led high 
above me. on the far side of a gully. With the views 
which each coil in the- road gave in mind, I did not be- 
grudge a. single inch of the rise, however hard it made 
the walking. . 
Across tjie yajley -beyond Pott's Creek were some 
heavy mountains— great, lumbering creatures, suggest- 
ing-a hevd.,01 : fat cows frisking with their calves. The 
soft coal smoke above Covington was spreading in a 
level jayer , over the valley of the Jackson, as if it had 
found, a .ceiling in the air strata. 
After ,a while the road left the face of the mountain 
ridge, and went in to a gap. I came to a house, but could 
get nothing to eat, there being "nothing cooked up." But 
a "Little ways further, 'bout a mile," I'd find a dinner, 
pei^ia^s. 1 It was afternoon, my breakfast had been un- 
satisfactory,, and I was hungry. At 12:50 o'clock, how- 
ever, L,. reached Nathan Brush's, the blacksmith, &A 
miles from, Covington. There I ate an ample dinner — 
milk, biscuit, sauces and jellies, and boiled salt pork. 
A few days, before a wheelman had stopped there for 
dinner. He had .come over the Alleghanies with his 
wheel from Buffalo, in spite of the snow and cold, headed 
for his home in one of the Carolinas. He had come 
through a most, interesting country at the rate of from 
40 to 70 miles a day. : The bicycle is too fast. No one 
can really -see a region until he has hit the pikes with 
the soles of his shoes. Even .walking is too fast if one 
does not hold up to talk to the friendly farmer who comes 
clear to the road just to, see where might the stranger be 
From Brush's ,tp the "Crajg,road" was only a mile or 
so, slightly down grade, , but -from there on it was up and 
up agairt,; the road^ ; working its way ascending the side 
of .Rich Patch .Mountain, the, valley rising with it. so 
ihere,.,w,ere no deep gullies to look down. I thought in 
the morning that I was climbing Rich Patch, but it was 
a mere "ridge" masking -Pott's Creek valley. The real 
article, however,- was scarcely worse. One's best maps 
are delightfully uncertain., They tell but little — one can- 
not guess at the scenery. Where there seems to be a 
plain one finds, beautiful ridges and hills, and through 
the roughest portions on the maps are fine valley roads 
very often. In the case of the, Rich Patch district, how- 
ever, the country, was as "rough" as the map said. The 
roads were ill kept in the back district compared to the 
other road into Covington. It was a hard tramp. Four- 
teen miles from Covington I was still two miles from the 
divide. A school district cluster of houses was reached, 
and I sought a resting place, I found it_ in the shadow 
of Nickol's Knob at John Persinger's. 
A man came through this locality a few years ago and 
bought black walnut trees by the carload. "He gave 
good prices." as much as fifteen dollars for some trees 
as they stood. He surprised people by grubbing up some 
old stumps the trunks of which had been burned in fire 
places or in brush piles to make way for cornfields. He 
said the butt-wood made "pretty" gun stocks, and of 
course the people were glad to have their land cleared 
in so cheap a fashion. Here, as everywhere on the 
mountainsides of West Virginia and Old Virginia, nr'n- 
erals, are the hope of the land owners — a not baseless 
hope, as anyone who knows iron ore can see in the road 
itself. 
"Every little ways, not more than a mile or so apart." 
I would find houses, so I was told in the morning when 
I headed for Craig county over the divide which marks 
the separation between Johns' and Potts' Creeks, both 
James River tributaries. It was a pretty bit of road 
where the rise ended and the down grade began. Scrub 
oak, Jack and bull pine grew in all directions. In the 
underbrush were rabbit runways and cattle paths. It 
seemed like a good game country. .The ground was 
Frozen, in contrast with which the profusion of green 
. due to the ground and mountain laurel was exceedingly 
pleasing. Wintergreen berries were there, too, and jolly 
hluejays who bothered a redhead woodpecker because 
it was their nature to do so. The quiet little juncos 
staid with me longest, as they always do, and seemed to 
enjoy our talk as much as I did. 
After a howdy to a man and some children at a clump 
of three houses. I proceeded to enjoy a novel kind of 
road. It was all down grade through the woods: At all 
times Jcouldhear the "run" of a brook, as it rustled down 
FOREST AND STREAM 
the bed, a crisp sound it gave off after the fashion of cold 
1 water on a dry day. Many times the road crossed the 
stream, but I could jump it at first, and then cross it on 
rocks without much trouble. The stones are not so 
smooth and treacherous as the rounded boulders of 
Adirondack streams. 
The woods had the same forbidding look that I noted 
back in Highland and Bath county — a snarling sort of 
forest, each tree looking like a thwarted miser. After a 
mile or so I came to a side hill clearing in which there 
was a log house, abandoned for some time. It looked 
gloomy and forbidding, as inwood abandoned clearings 
usually do. The fruit trees were unkempt in appearance, 
too. and there was a big boulder in the orchard, the 
memory of which was afterward vividly impressed on my 
mind by a story. 
It seems that Strand Helm was a mighty mean man. 
He was always picking and quarreling, and no one could 
get along with him very well. One day he took the no- 
tion that he would claim the fruit of the orchard at the 
abandoned house I saw and served notice on Alec 
Tucker, whose brother-in-law had the right to the fruit, 
for whom Alec was acting, that Alec should leave the 
fruit alone on penalty of getting shot. 
Alec is deaf as a stone wall, and only one familiar with 
his voice can understand him. He 'lowed he was a 
peaceable man and always treating other people right; 
nevertheless, when the fruit ripened he went up to the 
orchard, talcing two children, one a boy of twelve, the 
other a younger girl; he carried an old muzzleloading 
rifle and a hatchet to cut a stick to knock down the 
fruit. 
When Tucker gotto the place. Helm was bushwhacking 
for him behind the big rock in the orchard. Helm fired 
at Tucker, but missed. Then Tucker drew down on 
Helm and shot him in the head. It is said that Tucker, 
on the spur of the moment, cut the bullet out of Helm's 
head with the hatchet, so that it couldn't be used as 
evidence, but, thinking better of it, he went down to New 
Castle Court House and gave himself up. That was in 
1897. Self-defense was a sufficient plea, and Alec 
Tucker is one of the most respected men on Barber's 
Creek to-day. One doesn't have to look at the clear- 
eyed old man to see the most dangerous sort of gun 
fighter — it is enough to look into the eyes of the son 
who stood by his fathers side during the shooting. 
I came after a while to a prosperous looking farm; 
there was a small threshing machine under a shed; there 
was a pile of old sawed lumber and a low barn beside 
the log house and the detached kitchen. It was after- 
noon and I went to the kitchen to get dinner. The 
woman's voice was high pitched, and the man's both 
lips showed through his bushy brown whiskers — he was the 
kindthatone looks square in the eyes when about to turn 
the back on him. A young fellow there seemed pleasant 
enough, and after an ample "cold" meal, the meat part 
of which consisted of venison pot-stewed, I talked for 
some time with him. Deer, he said, were "scarce," 
pheasants scarce; so, too. were turkeys, squirrels and 
rabbits. I had seen several deer tracks after I came over 
the divide, and, noting that the speaker had hunted a 
good deal, I judged that he didn't want any strangers 
in his hunting ground. He had killed the deer of which 
I ate three days before. Two days later he killed another. 
He uses, a slow-track hound, one that follows a trail no 
faster than the hunter goes. He told me that if he saw 
a hound running in the woods he'd shoot it; "so would 
airybody around here." Roy Tucker, son of Alec, when 
I repeated this assertion to him, said: "If he killed my 
dog, I'd kill him." There are some dogs on Barber's 
Creek which the young man will not kill, nor try to. It 
is said that the bushy-whiskered man is the meanest man 
on Barber's Creek. "He'd draw the hide on a neigh- 
bor's pig and stick it, then let it go off into the brush 
and die." By "drawing the hide" on the throat of a pig 
and "sticking it" when released the animal's skin slides 
over the cut and so doesn't bleed. 
Through that district one will not get a neighbor to 
say that another is "mean." When I asked in regard to 
a place to stay in the morning I was told that there were 
"lots of places." I might try so and so. A tiny frown 
and "you'll find plenty of places to stop at" if I men- 
tioned one or other particular place where the man or 
family had a bad name indicated that I might find a cold 
reception. 
I wanted to stay a couple or three days at the house 
where the bushy-whiskered man lived, thinking I would 
like to see his way of life, but he refused — not directly, 
but through his wife — the only incident of the kind I 
have seen since I crossed the Potomac. 
I walked on down the valley for several miles, think- 
ing to continue on day after day as I had been doing. 
But toward night I came to two board houses close to- 
gether and evidently occupied by one family, I went up 
the lane to the stable, and leaving my pack on the fence 
crossing board, I walked up to the house "kitchen." A 
tall, heavy youth was in the doorway. On the floor were 
two dead rabbits, freshly killed. I was welcome for the 
night, at least. 
It was the home of Col. Thomas Taylor which I had 
found. The father was not at home, however; but there 
were three sons, two of them six-footers, one over five 
feet ten inches tall, and two daughters, one of them "the 
best looking girl in the valley." 
Alter supper we gathered before the fire-place — seven 
of us — and as they had two French harps and I one. music 
soon filled the cabin and "spurted out the cracks." The 
letters of the instruments Avere all different — mine D, 
theirs A and C. but it didn't matter. Nor did it matter 
that we didn't play the same tunes, so long as the time 
was about the same. When I played a new tune, they'd 
practice it, and when they played a new one I'd practice 
at it. 
The evening passed quickly and we boys went down to 
"the other house" to sleep. And sleep we did, till long 
after daylight the next Morning. 
On the morning of Dec. 13 the sky was clouded over, 
and clouds clung along the ridge tops in lowery fashion. 
A dash of chilly mist was in the air. It looked dismal 
and like a storm. I hesitated, prepared to go, stopped, 
and then decided to stay over Sunday. It was fortunate 
that I did so. Before noon the dash of mist became a 
, drizzle so cold that it drove one to the fire-place. 
128 
There was only a small window, and that was closed 
by a board slide. The door had to be left open so that 
the women could see to do their work. The rain swept 
in, consequently, with the still further reaching wind. 
One must needs turn first one side and then another to 
the fire. 
One of the boys, Walter, rode over to the mine on 
horseback. Noon, one o'clock, two o'clock came, and 
he did not return. Nor were there any signs of dinner. 
My appetite increased as the day waned, and a headache 
was the result. At last, Mrs. Taylor asked if I was 
getting hungry. 
"Oh, yes," I said, "but it doesn't make much difference 
to me when I eat." 
"We're clean shet erf salt, ami Walter's just gone to 
get some. I can't see what makes him gone so long." 
"Why," I said, "I've got a can in my pack yonder 
chock full of salt. You're welcome to it." 
I got the salt, and directly fresh pork was sizzling on 
the spider and the daughter, Hattie, was fetching the 
rolling pin down on the biscuit dough with the peculiar 
plunking thud which characterizes the biscuit rolling. 
Dinner grew on the table as one fancies the India magi- 
cian makes the mangrove bloom. We sat down to it. 
Biscuit of flaky texture, corn bread, potatoes, fried 
pork, with plenty of grease, molasses, apple and cream 
butter, coffee, sugar, cream and wild honey were the 
leading dishes. 
"Will you have milk?" Miss Taylor asked. 
"If you will, please," I replied. From a six-quart 
pitcher running full she poured out a glass full. I 
reached for it, and without setting it on the table, began 
to drink — three, swallows only. It was sour and thick. 
I had alread} r begun to eat. I continued to eat, but only 
by main strength was that possible. 
We were soon around the fire-place again with the 
door shut. When the blaze died away, it was renewed 
with a fat pine knot. The body of the fire was furnished 
by six or eight-inch green oak, cut from day to day by 
the three boys. Of the father I heard only one mention 
made. "Where's paw?" asked Walter. The reply was 
not meant for my ears. 
Charlie, 18 years, and Harmon, 16 years old, studied 
their school lessons by the light of the fire. Hattie 
"heard" Harmon spell his two pages in a pocket or 
school dictionary. Walter sat silent, watching the flames 
fly; I, too. saw much in those red flickerings. One can- 
not get tired of seeing the open fire. It seems that there 
is no mind so dull that it cannot find a kind word for it. 
Wrapped in every blazing log are the flame spirits — and 
the memories. "It 'pears to me like that yere open fire 
was a book, and me reading it. It must of been a friend 
who first boxed up fire. He must a done it to keep the 
tormented from seein' how pretty is the fire that never 
dies, lest they got ta liking the sight of it." Neverthe- 
less, this woodsman philosopher insisted on hot biscuit, 
done clear through, and that the stove makes certain. 
"The stove don't use so much wood, either," is the other 
leading argument which is slowly taking the ugly black 
things to this country where, the pioneers made their 
fame and left their habits. Raymond S. Spears. 
Warren Hapgood. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Mr. Warren Hapgood passed away at his home in 
Boston on Jan. 30. Warren Hapgood was born in Har- 
vard, .Mass.. upon the original Hapgood farm, Oct. 14, 
1816. 
In 1887, after fifty-four years of active business life, for- 
ty-one of which were on his own account, he retired. In 
all his life Mr. Hapgood never borrowed money nor gave 
his note. 
Mr, Hapgood was an ardent sportsman, and early in 
life began to use the gun and rod. More than fifty 
years ago he turned his attention to the beach and shore 
bird shooting, and has long been an authority on that 
branch of sport. A fluent and accurate writer, he has con- 
tributed to the literature of shore bird shooting a num- 
ber of instructive articles, many of which appeared in 
the Forest and Stream and Shooting and Fishing. 
He followed the ruffed grouse, quail and woodcock for 
many seasons, and was a capital shot. He organized the 
Monomoy Brant Club in 1862. and was its president and 
manager for thirty-four years. Forest and Stream 
readers will recall numerous articles written by him in 
connection with that shooting. He was. as well, a disciple 
of Izaak Walton, and has fished in the streams of Maine, 
New Hampshire. Massachusetts. New York, Pennsyl- 
vania. California, Oregon. Washington, Idaho, Montana 
and- Canada. Tr< ut fishing was his favorite, but he en- 
joyed pickerel fishing, and also bluefishing from a sail- 
boat, as practiced on Buzzard's Bay. 
Mr. Hapgood was early interested in game preservation 
and propagation by introduction of new birds. In 1877 
he imported some European quail ; 189 arrived alive out of 
a shipment of 250 from Messina, and were distributed 
in the vicinity of Harvard, in Worcester county. About 
the same time the Hon. Martin G. Everts, of Rutland, 
Vt., and Horace P. Tobey. Esq., of Wareham, Mass., each 
imported a consignment of birds from the same place. 
What finally became of them is a mystery. Readers are 
referred to copies of Forest and Stream for 1878, to 
which these gentlemen all contributed articles relating 
to the quail. 
Mr. Hapgood also introduced black bass from Halfway 
Pond, in Plymouth, to the ponds of his native town. He 
was a member of the Massachusetts Fish and Game Pro- 
tective Association, the Boston Art Club, the Museum 
of Fine Arts, the Bostonian Society, the New England 
Historic-Genealogical Society; belonged to Dr. Edward 
Everett Hale's church, and the Hale Club; had served on 
the Boston School Board, was a liberal subscriber to 
periodical and other literature. He donated a handsome 
sum to complete the public library of his native town, and 
made an address at its dedication; presented her citizens 
a clock to be placed upon the Unitarian Church; published 
in 1894 a history of Harvard for free distribution. 
Mr. Hapgood during the nineties made six annual trips 
to North Carolina for the quail shooting. With a party 
of friends he would spend from four to six weeks, some 
seasons in Dare county and others in Edgecomb. 
