A kind of dizziness seemed to possess Polly Anne, and, without looking at her escort, she could feel those jet black eyes often looking into her very soul. Each time she did happen to glance out of the tail of her eye at him she noted a kind of charming, boyish seriousness about his face that she remembered all the days of her life. She knew that he loved her, she had known it a long while and although she was submerged in a kind of blissful rapture she could only look at him quite foolishly and wonder why when love did come to one, that it took away one's ability to enjoy it as she had hoped to be able to do.
Soon they passed Harrisburg and the Umbarger mill which was the gathering place for the swains of that neighborhood. They hurried up their horses a bit and soon passed through the picturesque covered bridge that spanned the East Fork of the Little Pigeon river.
George W. wished that he might steal a kiss, but he dared not, lest he might offend that redhead and invoke a wrath shower, instead of a shower of kisses, so they rode on without pausing. How timid some men are when they are in love, and other times for that, but not George W. He was merely wise and abiding his time. He knew that a man can accomplish any wish if he will only go slow enough, and he had long since made up his mind to wed the slender, graceful, redheaded mountain sprite that rode beside him, and he also knew that they would return the same way at sunset, when "The purple shadows of the twilight hour would be kissing the trailing robes of night" and that the covered bridge would still be there and serve as a protection to anyone who might intrude on a lover's first kiss.
This young man had an unusual sense of the fitness of things. It is with such happy recollections that one always thinks of the covered bridges that once spanned our streams, the peculiarly human atmosphere they brought to the landscape and the fine feeling of security that one experienced while clattering through one's shadowy way. It was so delightful to pause within its protecting walls from a raging storm, or to just rest there on a sultry day, for it was seldom ever hot in a covered bridge, even though their walls and roof covered them over completely.
Anderson M. Scruggs must have adored them, too, else he could not so charmingly have written of them. "Some part of life becomes oblivion, something whose roots lie deep within the heart of simple folk, is lost, as, one by one, these pioneers of other days depart. Only the country folk whose careless tread endears a dusty road, can ever know the peaceful chattering joy of rude planks spread above the drowsy creek that gleams below. Here was a refuge from the sudden showers that swept like moving music, field and wood; and here, cool, tunneled, dark, when sultry hours danced with white feet beyond the bridge hood. Yet there are senseless men whose hand and brain, tear down what time will never give again."
This Sabbath April day was one of the happiest that Polly Anne and George W. Webb ever experienced. The congregation at Pigeon Forge was one of great brotherly love. The preacher was devout and an honored man of God. His name was James Cummings. Dinner was served on the ground as was the custom at these quarterly meetings. Great preparation was always made for these particular services, and the women had an abundance of good food to prepare for it is a fertile valley, producing all the good things native to this section. After dinner had been served, the services were turned into a "singing" in which all the people joined and were seated according to the part they chose to sing. The singing master conducted the program. He used a tuning fork to get the correct tone or pitch. These "sings" are still conducted throughout the entire mountain region, and they meet regularly from church to church, singing all day and taking great baskets of lunch. It is known as "the Old Harp Singing".
