built against it.  The proprietor sat in a little railed veranda.  These Southern verandas give an air to the meanest dwelling, and they are much used; the family sit here, and here are the washbasin and pail (which is filled from the neighboring spring-house), and the row of milk-pans.  The old man Tatern did not welcome us with enthusiasm; he had no corn,—­these were hard times.  He looked like hard times, grizzled times, dirty times.  It seemed time out of mind since he had seen comb or razor, and although the lovely New River, along which we had ridden to his house,—­a broad, inviting stream,—­was in sight across the meadow, there was no evidence that he had ever made acquaintance with its cleansing waters.  As to corn, the necessities of the case and pay being dwelt on, perhaps he could find a dozen ears.  A dozen small cars he did find, and we trust that the horses found them.

We took a family dinner with old man Tatern in the kitchen, where there was a bed and a stove,—­a meal that the host seemed to enjoy, but which we could not make much of, except the milk; that was good.  A painful meal, on the whole, owing to the presence in the room of a grown-up daughter with a graveyard cough, without physician or medicine, or comforts.  Poor girl! just dying of “a misery.”

In the spare room were two beds; the walls were decorated with the gay-colored pictures of patent-medicine advertisements—­a favorite art adornment of the region; and a pile of ancient illustrated papers with the usual patent-office report, the thoughtful gift of the member for the district.  The old man takes in the “Blue Ridge Baptist,” a journal which we found largely taken up with the experiences of its editor on his journeys roundabout in search of subscribers.  This newspaper was the sole communication of the family with the world at large, but the old man thought he should stop it, —­he did n’t seem to get the worth of his money out of it.  And old man Tatem was a thrifty and provident man.  On the hearth in this best room—­as ornaments or memento mori were a couple of marble gravestones, a short headstone and foot-stone, mounted on bases and ready for use, except the lettering.  These may not have been so mournful and significant as they looked, nor the evidence of simple, humble faith; they may have been taken for debt.  But as parlor ornaments they had a fascination which we could not escape.

It was while we were bathing in the New River, that afternoon, and meditating on the grim, unrelieved sort of life of our host, that the Professor said, “judging by the face of the ‘Blue Ridge Baptist,’ he will charge us smartly for the few nubbins of corn and the milk.”  The face did not deceive us; the charge was one dollar.  At this rate it would have broken us to have tarried with old man Tatem (perhaps he is not old, but that is the name he goes by) over night.