Foreword

In the Fall of 1940, Ernie Pyle and “that girl” whorode with him (his wife, “Jerry”) came to Gatlinburgand Ernie wrote eleven columns for the Scripps-HowardNewspapers about the village of Gatlinburg, the nativepeople and a trip he took to LeConte.

With permission of the Scripps-Howard NewspaperAlliance and Wm. Sloane Associates Inc., Publishers,these columns are reproduced in this little booklet.

They are good reading—by one of the truly greatwriters of our time. They are about things close to theheart of all who love the Smokies. They are simple (asis all great writing) sincere and touched by a quaint andwhimsical humor.

I wish to thank Loye W. Miller, Editor of theKnoxville (Tennessee) News-Sentinel, and Bert Vincent,Strolling Reporter, for their kind help and cooperationin re-printing these columns.

GATLINBURG, Tenn., Oct. 24, 1940—

For four years I’vebeen trying to get to the Great Smoky Mountains National Parkand to write some masterful columns about the astounding mannerin which Nature splattered her contours and evolutions over thispart of the globe.

But I monkeyed around and monkeyed around, and the firstthing I knew here was President Roosevelt down here dedicatingthe thing, and stealing all my glory.

But I just figured, well, the mountains are still here and thewords are still in the dictionary, so I might as well come on anywayand compose a little deathless literature on the Smokies, even ifMr. Roosevelt did beat me to the draw.

So here we are in Gatlinburg, the north entrance to the greatpark. Gatlinburg once consisted of five families. But today, thanksto tourist money, it is an amazingly charming little city, oozingwith handicraft shops and tasteful inns and lovely stone houses andsaddle horses and pretty girls in jodhpurs.

Gatlinburg lies in a cup, and low wooded mountains rise onevery side, and a little river runs behind the town, and the mainstreet goes a little uphill and around a couple of bends, and it isall just like you’d want a mountain resort to be.

Right now is the peak of the fall color season, and the mountainsare aflame with red and yellow and green, and anybody whocan see them without some kind of a gladness at being alive mustbe a dull soul indeed.

PASSED BY TIME

Centuries ago, white pioneers from England and Scotland cameinto these mountains and set up their homes. They were so isolatedthat our so-called progress largely passed them by.

They grew up to be a little race distinct. There is no denyingthat a mountain man is different from a plains or city man. I can’texactly tell you the difference, but there is something basicallyrugged in his character that would be nice to have within yours

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