D. Boone CILT A bar on this tree, 1760.

This tree is a place of pilgrimage, and names of people from all parts of the country are cut on it, until there is scarcely room for any more records of such devotion.  The grove is ancient looking, the trees are gnarled and moss-grown.  Hundreds of people go there, and the trees are carved all over with their immortal names.

A pleasant ride over a rich rolling country, with an occasional strip of forest, brought us to Union in the evening, with no other adventure than the meeting of a steam threshing-machine in the road, with steam up, clattering along.  The devil himself could not invent any machine calculated to act on the nerves of a horse like this.  Jack took one look and then dashed into the woods, scraping off his rider’s hat but did not succeed in getting rid of his burden or knocking down any trees.

Union, on the railway, is the forlornest of little villages, with some three hundred inhabitants and a forlorn hotel, kept by an ex-stage-driver.  The village, which lies on the Holston, has no drinking-water in it nor enterprise enough to bring it in; not a well nor a spring in its limits; and for drinking-water everybody crosses the river to a spring on the other side.  A considerable part of the labor of the town is fetching water over the bridge.  On a hill overlooking the village is a big, pretentious brick house, with a tower, the furniture of which is an object of wonder to those who have seen it.  It belonged to the late Mrs. Stover, daughter of Andrew Johnson.  The whole family of the ex-President have departed this world, but his memory is still green in this region, where he was almost worshiped—­so the people say in speaking of him.

Forlorn as was the hotel at Union, the landlord’s daughters were beginning to draw the lines in rural refinement.  One of them had been at school in Abingdon.  Another, a mature young lady of fifteen, who waited on the table, in the leisure after supper asked the Friend for a light for her cigarette, which she had deftly rolled.

“Why do you smoke?”

“So as I shan’t get into the habit of dipping.  Do you think dipping is nice?”

The traveler was compelled to say that he did not, though he had seen a good deal of it wherever he had been.

“All the girls dips round here.  But me and my sisters rather smoke than get in a habit of dipping.”

To the observation that Union seemed to be a dull place: 

“Well, there’s gay times here in the winter—­dancing.  Like to dance?  Well, I should say!  Last winter I went over to Blountsville to a dance in the court-house; there was a trial between Union and Blountsville for the best dancing.  You bet I brought back the cake and the blue ribbon.”