During my long lifetime, even since my early boyhood, there have been groups of girls of a certain lovely kind and character who have repeatedly turned up on my horizon. Again and again, in the variety of provincial places where I have lived, these clusters of charming girls have appeared with seemingly magical regularity. But whether they were little Sunday School girls living in a small southern town or they themselves constituted a sophisticated postded set in one of our burgeoning cities or they came on my horizon as nubile young ladies staying at an old-fashioned family summer resort, which once abounded in our southern highlands, still they have always and in every age had the same effect upon me.
I have found them nearly everywhere that I have turned—everywhere from Memphis to Nashville, from Chattanooga to Atlanta, and even on to Birmingham and New Orleans, as well as countless other more obscure points all over and about the countryside. But I may as well say here and now that no other group of girls ever had quite the same devastating effect upon me as did the girls at the summer resort at Owl Mountain Springs, a pretty little sylvan retreat perched high on the bluffs of the Cumberland Plateau in Middle Tennessee. It was this superb collection of girls that made their appearance before me—and seemingly for my own special delectation—during the hot Depression summers of 1933 and ’34.
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