It flows to-day in the same low bottom, in the heart of a city man has made out of half-baked bricks and called Nashville. And it is no longer the Great Salt Lick for the hunter and the hunted have passed and both have become dust upon the surface of things. To-day men call it the Sulphur Spring, and true to the laws of the land men have walled it in and piped it up and shut out all other animals, both of his kind and the others; and that which the Great Physician made to be free for all the countless sweet animals of the earth, man and woman and the chubby child, links which make life worth the living, and the beautiful deer, kine, elk and caribou, this greedy little tribe of animals called men, of whom you and I are one, not satisfied with having killed off all the other beautiful, sweet animals for their hides and tallow, and not satisfied in having felled all the cool, sweet trees which grew on the river, that the land might parch and burn, and unborn men might forever have to buy more water as the land grew more barren and more thirsty. [Illustration: The Pike at the Hermitage, going toward Nashville. (Photo March, 1906, by E. E. Sweetland.)] The greatest tragedy of the centuries is not the killing of the Innocents or the massacre of St. Bartholomew or the disasters of war or flame or famine, but it is the butchery by man of the trees of the earth—those stately messengers between the clouds and the land, the felling of which breaks the covenant of great laws invisible and blight the earth as with fire. It is that and the accursed Spirit, which, for a few dollars given, claims the right to monopolize the things God made for all men. * * * * * When one drives down the first dozen miles of the Lebanon pike one has a quiet, reverent feeling if he has a spark of patriotism in him. It is a typical road of Middle Tennessee—for all of Middle Tennessee is a rich loam lying on limestone. The rocks have been beaten into pikes and the gray-white roads pencil the distant slope or fade away into the gentle valleys. Around, everywhere, is the typical Southern home, the Southern farm of the grain and stock raising kind. This sketch is not a story of the life of Andrew Jackson. That were impossible in a short article. We have books and books on his life and character. Every school boy knows his history, the poverty of its beginning, the honor of its end. This is merely intended to be a quick picture of the man and his home as it was then—as it is to-day.