A 'Thousand- Mile TValk 
my ears could not hear wave-dashing at that 
distance. Yet every bit of spray was sounding 
in my ears. 
The subject brings to mind a few recollec- 
tions of the winds I heard in my late journey. 
In my walk from Indiana to the Gulf, earth 
and sky, plants and people, and all things 
changeable were constantly changing. Even 
in Kentucky nature and art have many a 
characteristic shibboleth. The people differ in 
language and in customs. Their architecture 
is generically different from that of their im- 
mediate neighbors on the north, not only in 
planters’ mansions, but in barns and granaries 
and the cabins of the poor. But thousands of 
familiar flower faces looked from every hill 
and valley. I noted no difference in the sky, 
and the winds spoke the same things. I did 
not feel myself in a strange land. 
In Tennessee my eyes rested upon the first 
mountain scenery I ever beheld. I was rising 
higher than ever before; strange trees were be- 
ginning to appear; alpine flowers and shrubs 
[ i74 1 
