The Sunny Southland, 1899

From the November 11, 1899 Skidmore Standard:

The Sunny Southland
J. W. Hutchison Writes from Springdale, Ark.

Springdale, Ark., Nov. 6th, 1899.
Editor Skidmore Standard: —

Well Mr. Editor I will try and make my promise good, as I told you I would write; now I am going to write. We left Skidmore, as everybody knows, and went straight to Kansas City, only a five minutes change in St. Joseph. Well we staid in Kansas City until we left. It is no such a town as Skidmore (no sah!) In Skidmore we could get out when we pleased but in Kansas City you go out when the other fellow pleases. Well we finally got out and started at 8 o’clock p.m. in the night; but before we got out, we had a free bus ride over to the Frisco depot. On the Frisco railroad we started south toward Old Arkansas and sailed along nicely until we came to a place where it seemed like the rails had been taken up and the wheels were running on the ties. It rained that night or I reckon it would have bumped more. When daylight came we saw another country as I never saw before. We were in South Missouri and it seemed like there was nothing in sight but flint rock. Flint rock, then more flint rock; it made me sick.

It was still raining when we got to Springdale; but we were met by our old time friend, B. W. Campbell, who had in waiting for us a carriage and drove us to his beautiful home, one mile south of Springdale. Mrs. Campbell, who was more than glad to see us, had prepared a fine dinner and we dined sumptuously. Wear now at home on the top of the Ozark mountains. It is a beautiful spot of seven hundred acres, high and level, with fine native groves and is well watered. Strawberry patches containing hundreds of acres can be seen here and peach and apple trees by the thousand. Persimmon groves are also quite numerous. Persimmons are ripe now and when a tree is shaken the fruit falls just like a basket of eggs – all flattened out. I ate so many yesterday that I am sick just now. It is summer down here. The timber is green and it looks like making garden.

J. W. Hutchison.

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