A PEEP AT THE STRANGERS.
On passing the towns of Ashland and Washburn, the foamy and discolored appearance of the stream gave evidence of the potato starch manufactories in the vicinity.
The strangest peculiarity of the inhabitants was their utter ignorance of the country and its surroundings.
These people, living on the river, could not give us the faintest idea of distances to points along the shore.
“Hello, stranger!” yelled the Colonel, as rounding a bend in the stream he spied a man standing in one of the log-houses that dot the banks; “can you tell us how far it is to the next town?”
“Dunno, friend; but its nigh on ten miles by the road.”
Another gave the same answer, while a third did not know the name of the next town, although he had lived five years in the country—a parallel to the Virginian woodsman who stalked forth from his native pines one day to learn that there had been such a catastrophe in the history of his country as the war of the Rebellion.
“Wake up, boys,” yelled the Colonel, arousing the party (4 A. M.) at our last camp near Washburn, where we turned out in the dark to partake of a hasty breakfast before embarking.
