The people live exceedingly well in these mountains.

They had plenty of honey and buckwheat cakes, and they called buttermilk "sour-milk," and sour-milk weren't fit for pigs; they couldn't see how folks drank sour-milk.

But sour-kraut was good.
Everything seemed to grow in the mountains--potatoes, Irish and sweet; onions, snap beans, peas--though the country was very thinly populated.
Deer, bear, and foxes, as well as wild turkeys, and rabbits and squirrels abounded everywhere.

Apples and peaches were abundant, and everywhere the people had apple-butter for every meal; and occasionally we would come across a small-sized distillery, which we would at once start to doing duty.

We drank the singlings while they were hot, but like the old woman who could not eat corn bread until she heard that they made whisky out of corn, then she could manage to "worry a little of it down;" so it was with us and the singlings.
From this time forward, we were ever on the march--tramp, tramp, tramp-- always on the march.