What religion they have is a pleasure to them. In the log meeting-house
they pray and sing, sometimes with a half-open eye on a fellow to be
"thrashed" on the following day for not having voted as he agreed;
"Amen" comes fervently from a corner made warm by the ardor of the
repentant sinner; "Hallelujah!" is shouted from the mourner's bench, and
a woman in nervous ecstasy pops her streaming hair; but the average man
has come to talk horse beneath the trees, and the young fellow with
sun-burnt down on his lip is there slily to hold the hand of a maid
frightened with happiness and boastingly to whisper shy words of love.
"Do you like Sam Bracken?" he inquires.
"Not much."
"If you like him much, I bet I can whup him. Like Steve Smith?"
"Not so powerful well."
"I can whup him."
"Bet you can't."
"You wait."
And the chances are that unless she modifies her statement the Smith boy
will be compelled to answer for the crime of her compliment.
In this community, in the edge of what is known as East Tennessee, the
memory of Andrew Jackson is held in deepest reverence.
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