When Gerald first moved to north Georgia，there had been no Atlanta at all，not even the semblance of a village，and wilderness rolled over the site.But the next year，in 1836，the State had authorized the building of a railroad northwestward through the territory which the Cherokees had recently ceded.The destination of the proposed railroad，Tennessee and the West，was clear and definite，but its beginning point in Georgia was somewhat uncertain until，a year later，an engineer drove a stake in the red clay to mark the southern end of the line，and Atlanta，born Terminus，had begun.
There were no railroads then in north Georgia，and very few anywhere else.But during the years before Gerald married Ellen，the tiny settlement，twenty-five miles north of Tara，slowly grew into a village and the tracks slowly pushed northward.Then the railroad building era really began.From the old city of Augusta，a second railroad was extended westward across the state to connect with the new road to Tennessee.From the old city of Savannah，a third railroad was built first to Macon，in the heart of Georgia，and then north through Gerald's own county to Atlanta，to link up with the other two roads and give Savannah's harbor a highway to the West.From the same junction point，the young Atlanta，a fourth railroad was constructed southwestward to Montgomery and Mobile.
Born of a railroad，Atlanta grew as its railroads grew.With the completion of the four lines，Atlanta was now connected with the West，with the South，with the Coast and，through Augusta，with the North and East.It had become the crossroads of travel north and south and east and west，and the little village leaped to life.
In a space of time but little longer than Scarlett's seventeen years，Atlanta had grown from a single stake driven in the ground into a thriving small city of ten thousand that was the center of attention for the whole state.The older，quieter cities were wont to look upon the bustling new town with the sensations of a hen which has hatched a duckling.Why was the place so different from the other Georgia towns？Why did it grow so fast？After all，they thought，it had nothing whatever to recommend it—only its railroads and a bunch of mighty pushy people.
The people who settled the town called successively Terminus，Marthasville and Atlanta，were a pushy people.Restless，energetic people from the older sections of Georgia and from more distant states were drawn to this town that sprawled itself around the junction of the railroads in its center.They came with enthusiasm.They built their stores around the five muddy-red roads that crossed near the depot.They built their fine homes on Whitehall and Washington streets and along the high ridge of land on which countless generations of moccasined Indian feet had beaten a path called the Peachtree Trail.They were proud of the place，proud of its growth，proud of themselves for making it grow.Let the older towns call Atlanta anything they pleased.
Atlanta did not care.
Scarlett had always liked Atlanta for the very same reasons that made Savannah，Augusta and Macon condemn it.Like herself，the town was a mixture of the old and new in Georgia，in which the old often came off second best in its conflicts with the self-willed and vigorous new.Moreover，there was something personal，exciting about a town that was born—or at least christened—the same year she was christened.
The night before had been wild and wet with rain，but when Scarlett arrived in Atlanta a warm sun was at work，bravely attempting to dry the streets that were winding rivers of red mud.In the open space around the depot，the soft ground had been cut and churned by the constant flow of traffic in and out until it resembled an enormous hog wallow，and here and there vehicles were mired to the hubs in the ruts.A never-ceasing line of army wagons and ambulances，loading and unloading supplies and wounded from the trains，made the mud and confusion worse as they toiled in and struggled out，drivers swearing，mules plunging and mud splattering for yards.
Scarlett stood on the lower step of the train，a pale pretty figure in her black mourning dress，her crêpe veil fluttering almost to her heels.She hesitated，unwilling to soil her slippers and hems，and looked about in the shouting tangle of wagons，buggies and carriages for Miss Pittypat.There was no sign of that chubby pink-cheeked lady，but as Scarlett searched anxiously a spare old negro，with grizzled kinks and an air of dignified authority，came toward her through the mud，his hat in his hand.
“Dis Miss Scarlett，ain'it？Dis hyah Peter，Miss Pitty's coachman.Doan step down in dat mud，”he ordered severely，as Scarlett gathered up her skirts preparatory to descending.“You is as bad as Miss Pitty an'she lak a chile 'bout gittin'her feets wet.Lemme cahy you.”
He picked Scarlett up with ease despite his apparent frailness and age and，observing Prissy standing on the platform of the train，the baby in her arms，he paused：“Is dat air chile yo'nuss？
Miss Scarlett，she too young ter be handlin'Mist'Charles'onlies'baby！But we ten'to dat later.You gal，foller me，an'doan you go drappin'dat baby.”
Scarlett submitted meekly to being carried toward the carriage and also to the peremptory manner in which Uncle Peter criticized her and Prissy.As they went through the mud with Prissy sloshing，pouting，after them，she recalled what Charles had said about Uncle Peter.