198 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
women have another picturesque occupation which is 
in no immediate danger of passing, and which, were 
it not for Homer, one might hesitate to enlarge upon. 
But after the glamour cast over Nausicaa beating 
out the family wash in the crystal waters of the 
Phseacian River, one ventures to present a woman 
of the Southern mountains standing under a laurel 
tree, her well-used wooden tubs ranged on a bench 
before her. On the ground at her side bright flames 
leap up about the large black pot, hung to a pole above 
or standing in the ashes. A cloud of white steam 
from the pot, a little curl of faint blue smoke from 
the fire, the deep-blue sky showing through the 
leaves of the forest, the murmur of running water 
from the stream close at hand — these are the rest 
of the apology, if any is needed, for presenting the 
subject in detail. 
Whereas Nausicaa trod out the stains from her 
clothes with snow-white feet, the woman of the 
mountains lifts her clothes from the boiling pot on 
the end of a long stick, lays them on a stump leveled 
for the purpose, and soundly beats them with a 
paddle. There are no shining sands on which to 
spread them, so she spreads them on the shining 
bushes, and when they are dry loads them, not into 
a chariot drawn by firm-hoofed mules, but into a 
basket made of oak splints which she sometimes 
carries home on her head. 
The washing-place down by the branch is always 
picturesque, and so Is the woman at her labors sur- 
rounded by the beauty of nature that, as it were, 
