Just before reaching Colonel Long’s we forded the stream (here of good size), the bridge having tumbled down, and encountered a party of picnickers under the trees—­signs of civilization; a railway station is not far off.  Colonel Long’s is a typical Southern establishment:  a white house, or rather three houses, all of one story, built on to each other as beehives are set in a row, all porches and galleries.  No one at home but the cook, a rotund, broad-faced woman, with a merry eye, whose very appearance suggested good cooking and hospitality; the Missis and the children had gone up to the river fishing; the Colonel was somewhere about the place; always was away when he was wanted.  Guess he’d take us in, mighty fine man the Colonel; and she dispatched a child from a cabin in the rear to hunt him up.  The Colonel was a great friend of her folks down to Greenville; they visited here.  Law, no, she didn’t live here.  Was just up here spending the summer, for her health.  God-forsaken lot of people up here, poor trash.  She wouldn’t stay here a day, but the Colonel was a friend of her folks, the firstest folks in Greenville.  Nobody round here she could ’sociate with.  She was a Presbyterian, the folks round here mostly Baptists and Methodists.  More style about the Presbyterians.  Married?  No, she hoped not.  She did n’t want to support no husband.  Got ’nuff to do to take care of herself.  That her little girl?  No; she’d only got one child, down to Greenville, just the prettiest boy ever was, as white as anybody.  How did she what? reconcile this state of things with not being married and being a Presbyterian?  Sho! she liked to carry some religion along; it was mighty handy occasionally, mebbe not all the time.  Yes, indeed, she enjoyed her religion.

The Colonel appeared and gave us a most cordial welcome.  The fat and merry cook blustered around and prepared a good dinner, memorable for its “light” bread, the first we had seen since Cranberry Forge.  The Colonel is in some sense a public man, having been a mail agent, and a Republican.  He showed us photographs and engravings of Northern politicians, and had the air of a man who had been in Washington.  This was a fine country for any kind of fruit,—­apples, grapes, pears; it needed a little Northern enterprise to set things going.  The travelers were indebted to the Colonel for a delightful noonday rest, and with regret declined his pressing invitation to pass the night with him.

The ride down the Swannanoa to Asheville was pleasant, through a cultivated region, over a good road.  The Swannanoa is, however, a turbid stream.  In order to obtain the most impressive view of Asheville we approached it by the way of Beaucatcher Hill, a sharp elevation a mile west of the town.  I suppose the name is a corruption of some descriptive French word, but it has long been a favorite resort of the frequenters of Asheville, and it may be traditional that it is a good place to catch beaux.  The summit