Gena of the Appalachians

by Clarence Monroe Wallin

“Turn to ‘Over There’ in your song-books. Git ready!” Then with a movement of both arms she led off. She hopped over in front of the “big class” and stood beating the air with her arms and thumping the floor with her wooden peg, endeavoring to hurry up those who were miserably dragging behind. Then she swung over and spurred up the “little class” who were piping away in some five or six different keys. Then back to the center of the room she went, and they all sang. The chorus swelled up and fairly lifted the roof, and the blend of harmony was about the same as the blending of kerosene and water.

Far back in the rear two or three good mothers, with crying babies swinging to and fro on their knees, were piping away in falsetto voices, coming out at least a line behind all the others. But it was singing. It was music—real worship, from the very bottom of hearts of Blood Camp—and methinks He who controls the destinies of all must have heard.

That day’s session of the Sunday-school ended in a blaze of glory with Emeline Hobbs, and she went back to the cabin on the side of the mighty Snake with her heart loving everybody—even Boaz Honeycutt was not forgotten.

But the glorious Fourth was drawing near, and preparations were under way for the picnic at Blowing Rock. Blood Camp did not understand in its fullest meaning the day we celebrate. They had heard little indeed of the great cities with their miles of bunting and the flag that we so dearly love floating from every window and door on July the Fourth. Of the fireworks; the great military pageants and the patriotic speeches from ocean to ocean, they knew little. But Paul Waffington had fittingly made mention of it in the Sunday-school, and the outcome of his remarks was the proposed picnic to Blowing Rock on the glorious Fourth.

The morning of the Fourth of July, 1904, was indeed glorious! The early sun had found the lunch ready and tucked away in baskets and pushed back under the seats in Slade Pemberton’s wagon. There were seats in the wagon for a party of eight. Fen Green sat in the driver’s place with Boaz Honeycutt and the three Allisons occupying the next two seats. Paul Waffington assisted Gena Filson into the rear seat and was himself seated with her, thereby leaving but one unoccupied seat in the wagon, and that by the side of Fen Green, the driver.

“Attention everybody!” cried Waffington, standing up in the wagon. “Miss Hobbs is the chaperon of this party, and rightly belongs to her the first seat by the driver.” Whereupon Emeline Hobbs allowed herself to be assisted to the side of Fen Green.

The big, gray mules fairly flew over the rocks, and the happy party laughed, babbled and sang snatches of song as they went. The way led under the tall trees, where the shade was deep. Then, coming out on the spur of the mountain, the road wound in and out of shallow ravines in beautiful turns. Some put out their hands and plucked rhododendron sprays as they bowled along. Stopping before a large clump of rhododendrons that were in full bloom,[A] they wove garlands of the flowers, decorated the bridles and harness and resumed their journey. Paul Waffington plucked a single daisy and roguishly fastened it in the hat of Gena Filson, and for his trouble she blushed sweetly and smiled upon him. On and on they went through the crisp morning air, finally turning into the neighboring village of Boone.

Yes, it was really Boone! a town named in honor of Daniel Boone. Here within its borders was the very spot where the great pioneer and man of iron nerve had pitched his camp, brought down the needed game with his rifle from the wilderness about him, deftly prepared his evening meal, and went to his sleep in the midst of the red man’s country, with little apparent fear.

“Three cheers for Daniel Boone!” cried Waffington, and they were given with a will as they cleared the village.

A long and beautiful stretch of mountain road was now before them. Acres and acres of full-blooming rhododendrons lent beauty and color to the scene. On the left water, crystal clear, tumbled down over the rocks and fell into pebbled bottomed pools below. The cool morning breezes coming down from the mountaintops laden with the invigorating smell of the balsam brought shouts of joy from all.