A LEGEND OF BERKELEY SPRINGS.
To one who has not lived in a mountain country the abounding beauty of those sequestered regions is unknown. The mountains, blue, dim, and mysterious, with range backing range, and pillaring the heavens, lift their mist-enveloped peaks far above this breathing, thinking world. There the wild deer roams in solitude and security, and there the daring of man has never penetrated. Grim old sentinels, clothed with verdure to their very summits, frown down upon coeval valleys which they protect, and through which they send their bower-born springs with gurgling music to the smiling plains, and onward, broadening into majestic rivers. The valleys, as if conscious of and grateful for the protection, run up to meet and embrace their gigantic guardians, with offerings of wild flowers and many-hued foliage. Afar off a human habitation clings to the side of the steep mount, surrounded by fields of emerald hue; a homestead, hewn from the primeval forest.
Leafless trees, blasted and riven by the angry elements, stretch their scathed limbs for mercy, while their earthless roots writhe like knotted reptiles and twist into hideous shapes. Roads, toiling lazily over steeps, gray, rugged, and rutty, lead away to unknown regions. A bald spot—rock—whose face has borne the violence of the storm for ages, yet defiantly stands there, inviting the fury of its ancient enemy. The clouds, broken into fantastic forms, cast gossamer shadows, which go floating phantom-like, away, as unreal as spirits and as tranquil as the promised land. Jutting crags, piled up in grotesque confusion, capped by monstrous rocky platforms, overhang the leafy depths. The rail track, like a glistening serpent, winds its way along the narrow shore, and over bridges light and fanciful, mere webs, spun by human spiders, spanning streams which foam their anger through narrow passes. Beneath, in a distant valley, the river, like a shining thread, flows on through tangled thickets, past populous towns and lowly huts.
But these mountain solitudes were not always so lonely. Ages gone by, when the world first began, they were peopled by a race of fairies. These little creatures lived and reveled in these grand old forests, and made them joyous with their merry shouts and sports. They knew no care, and nightly gathered beneath the spreading branches, sporting until the gray of morning drove them to their hiding places. They wantoned in the cool streams and swung in the pendant flowering vines, while the moon sent her silvery light down through the trembling leaves to light them on their way. The daylight was hateful to them, and all day long they passed the time in secret bowers and mossy recesses, away from the light, and only left them when the starry heavens bade them forth again to their nightly revels.
Thus, these happy little people lived, and far and near through all the woods, yielded willing allegiance to a queen, majestic, lovely, and beloved by her tribes. Her sway was mild, for mutual kindness was the bond between them. But for a long time her sorrowing followers had noticed that her sweet face wore a troubled look; that she had not as usual joined in their pleasures, nor even approved of them. They felt that some dreadful secret filled her heart and clouded her brow, yet what it was none dared to ask, and she herself remained silent. They would willingly have died to free her from this sorrow, but they knew not what to do. They surrounded her and said:
"Beloved sovereign, may we not share thy grief?"
"It may be, soon," she replied.
"Have we caused you pain? Have we not been dutiful?"
"My sorrow, dear people, is not of your creation; you have ever been loving, faithful subjects."
"What, then, can we do to show our devotion to you?"
"Our season of enjoyment, my subjects, is almost gone, and soon we must hide ourselves to escape the cold. When the spring returns again you shall learn it all; until then seek to know no more."
The winter was dead and passed away, and the genial breath of spring wafted silently over his grave, evoking glowing treasures from the ruin he had left. The earth, alive again, put forth its most beautiful creations, and tempted once more the fairies of the mountains to appear. The queen, true to her promise, sent swift messengers to her remotest people; she summoned them all to her presence. They came in troops, and filled the mountain tops and sides, and reached down into the valleys. She welcomed them as they approached her. In majesty she was seated upon a summer throne. It was formed of the finest woods of the forest, and quaintly fashioned by the little work-people. It was cushioned with the most delicate mosses, and wild vines had been trained up and over and around it, blending charmingly with the rustic woodwork. Above her tiny head spread a canopy of delicate twigs, twisted into fantastic shapes by skillful hands, and roofed with the glittering wings of the rarest insects, overlapped with such exactness that not even a drop of dew could penetrate. It was right royal, and she was worthy of it. Near the queen's pavilion were ranged the principal leaders of the various tribes, together with her most favored advisers.
Her eyes, sad and mournful, wandered over this vast assemblage of devoted friends.
"My people," she commenced, "as I promised, I have called you from your sylvan abodes to impart what I have too long concealed. It has been known to myself alone that the period for our allotted stay upon earth has almost expired. In a short time we must go, forever, from these scenes of pleasure—from these woody retreats where we have known so many joys. Our places will soon be taken by the sons of men. It is our fate that when they come we must disappear. Through all our lives we have done nothing but waste our time in pursuit of mere pleasure, hastening the time of our banishment and doing good to no one. Like the bees, fluttering from flower to flower, we will have sipped the sweets of life and left no mark that we ever existed. It is my wish ere we go, that we do something by which we may be remembered.
"Let us bestow upon mankind a gift so great that it shall last them forever, and which they may enjoy and bless us for to the end of time. Such a gift is within our reach, but we have never sought it for ourselves."
With one voice they said—
"What shall it be? The will of our queen is our pleasure."
"I was sure of it," she said. "Now listen: It is known to us all that within this very mountain the purest waters are imprisoned. But we can release them; these crystal streams must be set free from their subterranean channels and brought sparkling to the surface."
They all bowed obedience, and asked when this great task should be commenced.
"Let the preparation for this arduous undertaking go forward," she said, "now while the summer is with us. Waste not the time; let our whole people be employed in making instruments suitable for breaking the crust which confines the treasure we are going to bring forth for the benefit of mankind. We must hasten to our work and be diligent. I dismiss you, but assemble again when next the dreary winter is past and the genial sun warms the buds into leaflets—when the upland rills have found their voices once more, and come leaping from their hidden birthplaces."
The gentle summer had passed, the winter had again come and gone, and the troops were gathering in response to the command of their mistress. They had been industrious. Each came armed with a stout staff, made from the toughest wood and shod with the hardest flint. In myriads they arrived—whole armies of them—and eagerly awaited the command to go forward. They moved in column, headed by captains, down the steep declivities. They toiled with a will. Many died of fatigue, but their places were soon filled by other eager workers. At length their toil was rewarded, and the bright and beautiful waters gushed forth in great fountains.
The fairies have long since disappeared, but the waters still flow and fill the little valley with sweet, health-giving streams.
