The next morning I went out to talk with them as they ate breakfast.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Tenesy,” answered the man, giving the accent on the first syllable, a pronunciation peculiar to the uneducated natives.
“How do you come to be here?”
“Movin’. Got ejected in Tenesy, an’ we’re now huntin’ a new place.”
“Where?”
“Dunno. We reckon on squattin’ somewhar in the Blue Ridge.”
“Will you buy or rent the property?”
“Buy?” answered he, with an expression of astonishment on his face; “What do you reckon I’d buy with, stranger? I ain’t got a copper, an’ thet mule, hoss, wagin, an’ hay an’ corn in hit, an’ them harnesses, could’nt be swapped fer much land, I reckon. All I’ve got? Yes, ’cept the ole woman an’ them boys. I’ll jist put up a cabin somewhars in the woods, plant a crap, an’ stick thar till they done driv me out.”
After this reply, he leaned forward and poured out another cup of coffee for himself and family, as I slowly turned and walked away. No more poverty-stricken families can be found than some of these occasionally seen moving through the mountains. This one had property in a team and wagon, but I have met them traveling on foot and carrying their sole possessions.