"Doc" Mosley was a mountain man from North Carolina. He was tall, lean and muscular and grew handle-bar mustaches. Hard labor and long hours never seemed to tire him. When we moved from Chattanooga to the president's residence at the Normal School. Mosley mysteriously appeared to help unload, uncrate and place the furniture in our new home. Where he came from I did not then inquire. I needed help and he was there to give it.

He lived up to my first impression of him, and as the years passed I esteemed him more and more. He was honest to a fault and exemplified in his daily life industry, integrity and honor. His sternness was mellowed by a sense of humor. He was a fearless mountaineer, yet I never heard his voice raised in anger. He loved the farm stock, the mules, cattle, pigs and chickens, but most of all he loved the mules. They were his daily and constant companions. One night there was a severe thunderstorm. Mosley was awakened by the howling elements and his first thought was of his mules. He left his comfortable cabin a half mile away, and that soon after midnight, to fight his way in the darkness and the storm to see that his mules were safe in their stalls.

He could not be altogether patient with idleness or laziness. One time a member of the class in gardening was using his spade in an indifferent and not very energetic way. Mosley noticed this and said so that all the class might hear; "There air a sign on the handle of that air spade that says 'push hard'". After this sly rebuke the pupil pushed hard!

I never asked him why he left the mountains of North Carolina to live in the mountains of East Tennessee, but he nearly told me one time! The basement at the residence was very large. Much of it was not used. One cold morning I met Mosley in the basement where he was building a fire in the furnace. In jest, but with a very serious countenance, I said to him; "Mosley, there is too much waste space in this basement. We could separate this large corner from the rest by brick walls, put in a moonshine still, connect the flue with the furnace chimney and the government 'revenuers' would never discover it. Mosley, how would you like to operate it?" Without a moment's hesitation Mosley answered: "Professaire, that air the reason I had to leave North Caroliny!"

Mosley took much better care of the mules that he did of himself. An attack of flu was neglected. It developed into pneumonia, and Mosley died as he had lived, an honorable gentleman. Although he could barley scrawl his name or read a printed page, I am sure he was able to read his admission card and sign his name to the roll in the Valhalla of men of integrity and industry. I hope he meets me with his wagon and mules at the entrance gate there some day.

Go back to Doc's family page.