We sat beside a primeval stream yesterday, buried in the hard earth
and ancient trees of the Appalachia. We
are a family of Tennessee, older than the state, birthed in the green hills of
Scotland, sailed to North Carolina and then drawn eastward to scratch out a
life in the Appalachian Mountains. Our
family has tramped these hills as long as white people have tramped them. Only the early man, the red skinned man, the
deer slayers and quiet runners have been in these hills longer than the
Bensons. When we spread our fair along
the bank and take our afternoon leisure we are sitting down in our own and
ancient parlor.
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