Generously, for uncounted years, this family of
the hills has given to the valley the surplus products of their timbered
slopes, and the Wolf River has gone through the valley distributing the
wealth the mountains brought in, brightening and adding touches of
beauty here and there, ever singing as she came down to her daily task.
The mountains and the river have worked unceasingly together to make the
spot a place of comfort and beauty.
On the bare rock-shoulder of one of these mountains, in the closing
years of the eighteenth century, stood one of the last of the "Long
Hunters," that race of stout-hearted, sturdy-legged men who when the
Atlantic Coast was dotted with sparsely settled British colonies climbed
the mountains and went down the western slopes on the long hunts in the
unknown land that lay below. They were the pioneers of the pioneers, who
in their wanderings found a spot rich in game, in nuts and soil--such a
home as they had wished--and they beckoned back for their families and
their friends.
The figure upon the rock-ledge rested upon a long, muzzle-loading,
flint-lock rifle as he looked out over the valley. His legs were wrapped
in crudely tanned hides made from game he had killed. His cap was of
coon-skin. His search for adventure and game had carried him across the
crest of the Cumberlands and along many weary, lonely miles of the
western wooded slopes of those mountains.
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