“Well, I wisht I may die!”
CHAPTER XIII
The Passing of the Clouds
On the very top of the Blue Ridge, over against Mt. Mitchell itself, the highest peak of the Appalachian system, nestles the little village of Blowing Rock. The distinction of being a great summer resort and at the same time boasting the highest altitude of any town in the Appalachian system belongs to Blowing Rock. A town of some five hundred inhabitants, with six or seven summer hotels and long strings of summer cottages, its population is easily doubled twice over during the hot summer season, by the rich of the north and east, and the well-to-do from the south. The northerner and southerner meet here for a month’s rest, not forgetting (albeit they come for rest) to find time enough in which to exchange a few shares of cotton-mill stock of the South for a few shares of shoe-factory stock of the East.
The artist, too, is found in Blowing Rock. He comes and finds both rest and profit. He walks out upon the great rock—the Blowing Rock itself—which projects horizontally out into space at the very apex of the Blue Ridge, and looks out into the very countenance of the great Appalachian system of mountains. He sees just in front of him Mt. Mitchell itself, in all of its midsummer glory. To the right he beholds Grandfather Mountain, the old man reclining in silent sleep beneath sapphire skies—his aged head pillowed upon the everlasting piles of stone, and his couch draped in summer’s mantle of emerald green. Then thousands of feet down he beholds the plains of the valleys below stretching away, beyond the vision of his eyes, on into the endless cotton-fields of the South.
He has beheld visions before. But this is sublime! From lofty crags and peaks he has many a time looked upon all nature, but here he is overcome by matchless beauty. He snatches up his brush, and under the inspiration the daubs of hard, cold paint begin to warm on the canvas, and resolve themselves into green valleys and peaks and shadows, a picture of the truth.
Into this same Blowing Rock—not the Blowing Rock on the page of a book—but the Blowing Rock of reality, the little picnic party from Blood Camp came bowling along, past the rows of summer cottages and drew up at the great rock itself.
“Oh, how beautiful!” cried Gena Filson. “Oh, how grand! And the great mountains, how dearly I love them!”
The wagon was stopped under the trees, and the mules were made comfortable. Then came reconnoitering, exploration and the gathering of flowers and ferns. Going to the wagon Paul Waffington returned with a package in his hand, that he had brought with him from the city. All were inquisitive to know its contents.
“Giant firecrackers,” he said. “Glorious Fourth! Let us throw a few over the rock and celebrate.” Suiting the action to the word, he tore open the package, touched a flame to the fuse of one of the giant crackers and threw it over the rock with all his might. It went down, down, down through space—then boom! came the terrific report, and all screamed with delight.
“Oh, do it again!” begged Gena Filson, clapping her hands. Suddenly she arose, ran to the wagon, drew from her basket a silk flag and came running back, waving it and exclaiming: