bein' the best spring in these parts," she said,
pleased with his appreciation.

"An' hit's a never-failin' spring, too. We've plenty o' water the dryest
times, when everybody else's goes dry."

"That IS delicious water," said Harry.

"An' now I'll git ye yor breakfast in a minnit. The teakittle's
a-bilin', the coffee's ground, the pone's done, an' when I fry a little
ham, everything will be ready."

As her culinary methods and utensils differed wholly from anything
Harry had ever seen, he studied them with great interest sharpened not a
little by a growing appetite for breakfast.

The clumsy iron teakettle swung on a hook at the end of a chain fastened
somewhere in the throat of the chimney. On the rough stones forming the
hearth were a half-dozen "ovens" and "skillets"--circular, cast-iron
vessels standing on legs, high enough to allow a layer of live coals to
be placed beneath them. They were covered by a lid with a ledge around
it, to retain the mass of coals heaped on top. The cook's scepter was a
wooden hook, with which she moved the kettles and ovens and lifted lids,
while the restless fire scorched her amrs and face ruddier than cherry.

It was a primitive way, and so wasteful of wood that it required a tree
to furnish fuel enough to prepare breakfast; but under the hands of a
skillful woman those ovens and skillets turned out viands with a flavor
that no modern appliance can equal.

The joists of the house were thickly hung with the small delicious hams
of the country--hams made from young and tender hogs, which had lived
and fattened upon the acorns, fragrant hickory-nuts and dainty beechnuts
of the abundant "mast" of the forest, until the were saturated with
their delicate, nutty flavor. This was farther enriched by a piquancy
gained from the smoke of the burning hickory and oak, with which they
were cured, and the absorption of odors from the scented herbs in the
rooms where they were drying. Many have sung the praises of Kentucky's
horses, whiskey and women, but no poet has tuned his lyre to the more
fruitful theme of Kentucky's mast-fed, smoke-cured, herb-scented hams.
For such a man waits a crown of enduring bays.

Slices of this savory ham, fried in a skillet--the truth of history
forces the reluctant confession that the march of progress had not yet
brought the grid-iron and its virtues to the mountains--a hot pone of
golden-yellow meal, whose steaming sweetness had not been allowed to
distill