Widow Nelson lives in the only visible farm-house,--a low, ill-constructed, frame dwelling with a log cabin in the rear, and small barn near by. It is a hospitable shelter or dinner-place for the traveler. On the widow’s porch is always seated a fat old man named Reggles. He is short in stature, has red, puffed, smooth-shaven cheeks, and appears like “a jolly old soul.” You will hear his sonorous voice, if you draw rein at the fence to make inquiries concerning distances; for he is an animated, universal guide-post, and answers in a set manner all questions. So few settlers live along the Nantihala that the strongest friendship binds them together; and every one considers all the people surrounding him, within a radius of ten miles, his neighbors. The social ties between the young folks are kept warm principally by the old-fashioned “hoe-downs.” During a week’s stay in the valley, we improved an opportunity to attend one of these dances. Satisfactory arrangements being made, one evening before dark we started with Owenby, a guide. A branch road led to our destination,--a path, that, though a faint cattle trail in the beginning, had grown, after being traveled over by the mountaineers’ oxen and their summer sleds, into a road. As is usually the case, it followed up an impetuous little torrent. At a small, log cabin, where we stopped after proceeding a mile on one journey, we were joined by a party of twenty young men and women; and with this body we began the ascent to Sallow’s, where the dance was to be held. Still enough twilight remained for us to find our way without difficulty. All walked with the exception of three men, who, each with his respective young lady seated behind him, rode mules, and led the way. After a steady climb for several miles we halted before the dim outlines of another little cabin. The mounted ones dismounted and fastened their steeds. “I reckon we’ll surprise ’em, fer it ’pears they’ve all gone to roost,” remarked Owenby, as we silently stepped over the leveled bars of the fence into the potato patch bordering the road. Not a streak of light shone through a crack of the cabin, not a sound came from the interior. One of our party pushed the puncheon door, which easily swung open with a creak of wooden hinges. “Come to life in hyar! Up an’ out! Hi, yi, Dan and Molly!” he yelled, while following his lead we all crowded into the single room. The fire had smouldered until only a few coals remained, and those were insufficient to throw any light on the scene. “Good Lord! what does this mean?” growled, from a dark corner, some one who was evidently proprietor of the premises. “Hit means we’re hyar for a dance, ole man; so crawl out,” laughingly returned our self-constituted spokesman. “Well, I reckon we’re in fer it,” continued the disturbed, as we heard a bed creak, and bare feet strike the floor. “Pitch some pine knots on the fire, and face hit an’ the wall while wife an’ me gits our duds on.”