“If it did you would soon become anxious to leave the neighborhood,” says Eric. “The shakes of the Bald are not trifling. I was fortunate enough to be on the mountain when one of them occurred. It was the most severe earthquake I ever felt, accompanied by a rumbling noise unlike any other noise that I ever heard.” “Earthquakes are common in this region, are they not?” asks Sylvia. “Not exactly common, but they occur at intervals. The earliest Cherokee traditions give accounts of them, and they have often occurred since white men have held the country. None, however, have been so long continued as the shocks of the Bald—which rumbled and shook with slight intermissions for more than a month.” “Whereupon all the people who lived on or near the mountain forsook their business, and became extremely pious—until the rumbling and shaking ceased,” says Charley. “Then they forgot their piety with as much celerity as they had gained it.” “A certain Methodist preacher is said to be accountable for the whole excitement,” says Eric. “Being disgusted with the hard-heartedness of his flock, and their insensibility to all his appeals, he desired the Lord to make the mountain move beneath their feet. Shortly afterward the mountain _did_ move, and a gratifying number of instantaneous conversions took place.” We are strolling along the road while we talk in this manner, the carriages being some distance ahead, with Aunt Markham’s bonnet nodding to and fro, in testimony to the roughness of the road, over the lowered phaeton top. Far above us rise the mountains, beside us brawls the stream, on the banks which inclose our way glowing leaves shine, the delicate fronds of ferns appear, tiny streams trickle—there is perpetual moisture and perpetual shade. Presently the carriage stops: Aunt Markham turns and beckons us to draw near. “It strikes me that we had better take our luncheon,” she says. “Not yet,” answers Eric. “It is early, and we have not passed through the Reedy Patch. Wait till we reach the Broad River, where we enter Hickory-Nut Gap. That will be a good halting-place, and there is a house near there where John can buy something for the horses.” “Very well,” says Aunt Markham, resignedly, “but it is my opinion that we shall spend the day passing through Reedy Patch.” “I hope not,” says Eric. “Now, Alice, you had better enter the carriage for a while.” I enter accordingly, and we press on more rapidly for the next mile or two. The descent is now very marked, and before long we cross Reedy Patch Creek for the last time, and reach the Broad River. Why this stream should have such a misnomer attached to it no one can say— further than that the early settlers of the country (in a spirit of irony, it is supposed) named all the narrow rivers they could find “Broad.” “First Broad and Second Broad are below here,” says Eric. “This is properly Rocky Broad—and you must admit that the first part of the name is well bestowed.”