le move to the lowlands and go to living in
tight-framed houses, they soon deteriorate like Indians. It is of no use
to teach them to ventilate by lowering windows from the top. That is
some more "blame foolishness"--their adherence to old ways is stubborn,
sullen, and perverse to a degree that others cannot comprehend. Then,
too, in the lowlands, they simply cannot stand the water. As Emma Miles
says: "No other advantages will ever make up for the lack of good water.
There is a strong prejudice against pumps; if a well must be dug, it is
usually left open to the air, and the water is reached by means of a
hooked pole which requires some skillful manipulation to prevent losing
the bucket. Cisterns are considered filthy; water that has stood
overnight is 'dead water,' hardly fit to wash one's face in. The
mountaineer takes the same pride in his water supply as the rich man in
his wine cellar, and is in this respect a connoisseur. None but the
purest and coldest of freestone will satisfy him."

Once when I was staying in a lumber camp on the Tennessee side, near the
top of Smoky, my friend Bob and I tramped down to the nearest town, ten
miles, for supplies. We did not start until after dinner and intended to
spend the night at a hotel. It was a sultry day and we arrived very
thirsty. Bob took some ice-water into his mouth, and instantly spat it
out, exclaiming: "Be damned if I'll stay here; that ain't fit to drink;
I'm goin' back." And back he would have gone, ten miles up a hard grade,
at night, if someone had not shown us a spring.

[Illustration: Photo by Arthur Keith

A misty veil of falling water]

A little colony of our Hazel Creek people took a notion to try the
Georgia cotton mills. They nearly died there from homesickness, tight
houses, and "bad water." All but one family returned as soon as they
possibly could. While trying to save enough money to get away one old
man said; "I lied to my God when I left the mountains and kem to these
devilish cotton mills. Ef only He'd turn me into a varmint I'd run back
to-night! Boys, I dream I'm in torment; an' when I wake up I lay thar
an' think o' the spring branch runnin' over the root o' that thar
poplar; an' I say, could I git me one drink o' that water I'd be content
to lay me down and die!"

Poor old John! In his country there are a hundred spring branches
running over poplar roots; but "_that thar_ poplar": we knew the very
one he meant. It was by the roadsid