In one of these there lives an elderly man named Patterson. When first by accident we rode past his door, one of the men said "He looks more like a Union man than any one we have seen yet;" and we soon learnt that he was a Philadelphian, who had wandered to Tennessee many years ago for health: he had married here, settled and become a Tennessean. His clothes are the yellowish, brownish homespun, which we all call "butternut;" and his house has the strange opening through the centre, so common here. I cannot quite determine whether these Tennessee houses consist of two houses hitched together by "the roof o'erhead" and the floor beneath, or of one long house, with a big hole cut through the middle. They are not bad in warm weather, for there is a breeze blowing through this open part, and in it the family sit and work. The stone chimney runs up the outside of the house, and gourd dippers are hung around the door. I like these gourd dippers much--the water tastes better from them than from anything else, and the sight of one makes me thirsty. We therefore stop to see Mr. Patterson, and get a drink; the pail of fresh water is quickly carried from the spring, and the gourd dippers are eagerly seized by the men. Some miles from Mr. Patterson, we stop to feed. It's a bleak house, and looks as though the owner had been long away. Two small boys appear--very frightened and very civil. "Where is your father, my boy?" I ask of the elder. "In the army, sir." "The Southern army?" "Yes, sir." "And your mother?" "She's gone up to grandfather's." "Well, my boy, I shall have to take some of your corn for our horses." "Oh! I don't care nothin' about the corn, if yuh wunt pester us."