"Yes, sir."
"And you, too, Mr. Agent?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the coach, and the cattle, and all?"
"All from Pennsylvania."
"How long have you been here?"
"We have been here about a fortnight, stocking the road. We commenced regular trips yesterday. You are the first passenger through, sir."
It was, in fact, merely a transfer from one of the old National Road lines, complete. After a little further conversation, I asked, "How do you like the country, here?"
"Very nice country," said the agent.
"It's the cussedest poor country God ever created," napped out the driver.
"You have to keep your horses on"
"Shucks![1] damn it."
The character of the scenery was novel to me, the surface very flat, the soil a fine-grained, silvery white sand, shaded by a continuous forest of large pines, which had shed their lower branches, so that we could see from the coach-top, to the distance of a quarter of a mile, everything upon the ground. In the swamps, which were frequent and extensive, and on their borders, the pines gave place to cypresses, with great pedestal trunks, and protuberant roots, throwing up an awkward dwarf progeny of shrub, cypress, and curious bulbous-like stumps, called "cypress-knees." Mingled with these were a few of our common deciduous trees, the white-shafted sycamore, the gray beech, and the shrubby black-*jack oak, with broad leaves, brown and dead, yet glossy, and reflecting the sunbeams. Somewhat rarely, the red cedar,
- ↑ Husks of maize.
