Here, along the roadside where the woods started to climb those high rocky hills, grew innumerable ferns and wild flowers. Great Osmundas, the most beautiful fern of all this region, were like palms, so graceful and airy did their broad fronds appear. Here, too, the giant brake with its single umbrella-like frond appeared clad in its bright green robes; then where the shade became more dense the lovely maiden-hair with its fragile, graceful wave-edged leaflets swayed on its delicate dark brown stems, and the ostrich fern stood in vase-like clusters along the mountain side or spread their lovely fronds along some river bank, while the dainty bladder bulblet draped ravines, gorges and steep banks of streams with long feathery fronds whose points overlapped the delicate light green of which formed a vast composite picture in sunlight and shadow. Here we first discovered the lizard's-tail, a tall plant crowned with a terminal spike whose point bent gracefully over, no doubt giving it its name. The stout stalks of elecampane with their large leaves and yellowish brown flowers were seen, and numerous small plants peeped from among their rich setting of vines and mosses. If the ferns are numerous, charming the eye with delicate and graceful beauty, the birds are more so, delighting the ear with their rich and varied melodies. Here one catches the cheerful strain of the Maryland yellow throat, a bird whose nest Audubon never chanced to discover. The Baltimore Oriole now and then favored us with rich notes and displayed his plumage of black and orange, the colors of the coat of arms of Lord Baltimore.
Making our way over such enchanted ground we finally arrived at Hancock, a town of about a thousand inhabitants located in the center of a fruit belt, including one of the most extensive orchard developments in America. To the west may be seen the famous "Tonoloway orchards," also R. S. Dillon's orchard on the state road where the mountain side is covered with nearly a hundred thousand apple trees. This delightful summer resort overlooking three states, as well as the broad Potomac and the Chesapeake and Ohio canal, is worthy of a visit. About eleven miles from Hancock we crossed a long stone bridge over a stream with the unpronounceable name of "Conococheaque creek." This valley was inhabitated by other than the whites in days gone by. Here, where the golden harvest waits to be garnered, the Indian maize grew in abundance; their camps and villages were scattered here and there when the country was a wilderness. The dogwood pitched its white tent here in early spring and the royal color of the redbud shone from the steep hillsides like purple bonfires, the same hepaticas with their blue, pink and white blossoms peeped from among the moss and leaves to gladden their hearts.
One afternoon we saw rolling masses of cumulus clouds rising above the far blue ridges; then as they drifted nearer the bright green of the forest made a background which brought out in relief their finely modeled forms. They seemed to hang motionless there until the sudden crash of thunder burst upon the hushed air with violent explosions, where the cliffs took it up and repeated it to the neighboring hills, and they in turn told it to still others until its far away echoes died among the more distant ridges. For a time the rain came down in torrents, and as we watched its silvery sheets spreading over the hills and through the valley it seemed as if every leaf and flower and grass blade instantly took on new life. How fresh and pure the old trees looked! The fragrance from the pine, sweet-scented fern and numerous mints was more pronounced. "Detached clouds seemed to be continually leaving the main mass like scouts sent out in advance to drop their silver spears on the heads of ferns and flowers on other hills." Some of the detached portions moved up the valley, others rose slowly above the wooded ridges or trailed their tattered fringes near the tree tops that seemed to have torn their edges. Every bush and leaf was saturated with their life-giving elixir. How the wild sweet carols of the birds ascended from every forest! It seemed as if all Nature was sending up a paean of praise for the beneficent rain, and our thoughts took on that same serenity and calm, glad joy and the melody of our hearts joined the universal anthem of praise to the Creator. Amidst these fair scenes we watched the passing clouds that were crossing the distant ridges and the whole mass of verdant hill sides were brought out in fine relief; while the darker mass of clouds seemed to be copying the outlines of the far seen hills like another Blue Ridge range.
New Market is the oldest and most beautifully situated town in the valley. The north fork of the Shenandoah river is seen disappearing behind a range of hills that rises high above the town to the northwest; while to the southeast one sees the meandering mill stream known as Smith's creek, flowing 'round the foot of the Massanutten mountains.
Near this spot the Indians had their camping ground in a ravine, visible from the pike to the north. This ravine is known as Indian Hollow, and well into the nineteenth century the smoke could be seen rising from their numerous tepees, like small clouds of vapor after a summer rain. Here if you look westward you may see the gap in the Massanuttens, through which Stonewall Jackson's army marched to Front Royal, where, by a surprise attack, Banks' left flank was turned, thereby starting a retreat of the Federal army which did not end until it had crossed the Potomac at Harper's Ferry.
In the battle of New Market, which was fought along the northwestern edge of town, occurred an episode of the Civil war so remarkable as to equal the bravery of that of the three hundred Spartans. The V. M. I. Cadets, a battalion of boys, from fourteen to twenty years of age, was ordered from school at Lexington, Virginia, to join Breckenridge's forces. In this desperate crisis of the last months of the war, these brave lads reached New Market at night after a strenuous march of three days. "The early hours of the morning found them in battle line, where for several hours they held their position in spite of a galling fire from the infantry and a heavy destructive fire from the artillery. Just when the Union troops were contemplating a speedy victory at the most decisive moment of the battle, these gallant boys rose as a unit, and charging across an open wheat field, in spite of severe losses in killed and wounded, broke the Federal lines and turned what seemed to be a defeat into a victory."
In this village lives the noble old lady who in those awful days of horror that knew no Red Cross organized the care of this boys' army and carried on the nursing and relief work. No wonder those brave lads called her the "Mother of the V. M. I." Her deeds of mercy shine forth like stars on a winter night.
How many and delightful are the windings of the famous valley Pile beginning at Winchester! Through what fertile stretches of well cultivated land it leads you! The more serrated lines of the Alleghanies rise faint and blue on the western horizon; the lovely contour of the Blue Ridge is seen in the east while about half way down the valley rises that wonder of wonders, Old Massanutten. It may be an outcast among mountains, for the other ranges leave it severely alone. It is a short range and rises very abruptly from the valley being parallel to the other ranges. Its rough bouldered sides form a striking contrast to the other ranges of the valley. It is a strange, solitary range, drifted away from its brother companions in the beginning of time and was stranded there—a regular outcast of a mountain. Perhaps it is no outcast but was set apart by Nature in the early dawn of time. "It not only towers above the beautiful valley but draws itself haughtily away from the other hills as if it had a better origin than they."
Indeed, if you cross the range in an automobile, you think the contrast with its sharp precipices quite dramatic. How the shock absorbers of your spine are brought into play and how infinite are the windings on this mountain road; yet it is worth climbing for the scenes are thrilling. At a very steep incline, still far from the top, we met a colored man holding a parley with some others who were climbing the mountain in a Ford. He must have been prejudiced toward this type of auto for he was heard to repeat again and again: "No, sah, I'se nebber gwine to go to de top ob old Massanutten in a 'Fod.' No, sah, yo ain't nebber gwine to ketch me goin' up dat frien'ly invitation to de open grave, in dat Fod. Man, Oh man! you-all don' know what chances you-all is takin. Look away out over the valley to de homes you am leaben for you sure'll nebber see dem any mo." With all the solicitous advise given by their fearful companion the occupants of the car were not to be stopped by this calamity-howler and the little Ford soon stood triumphant upon the very crown of old Massanutten. A lady also seen, walking down a very steep descent, concluded that she too would rather push up daisies in Shenandoah valley than ferns on old Massanutten.
No matter how steep the road or how numerous its windings no fear seized upon us unless it was the fear of missing some of Nature's most wonderful scenes. How often we admired the lovely Dicksonia ferns with their lanceolate green fronds pointing in all directions; how many times we heard the melody of the wood- thrush as evening drew on and the shadowy ravines seemed hushed and serene as his "angelus" sounded in these vast mountain solitudes. Each note was a pearl to string on the sacred rosary of memory and how often "we shall count them over, every one apart" and be drawn nearer the Master of all Music! Oh these vast, immeasurable days, filled to overflowing with sunlight and fragrance and song! Out here in these beautiful hills there can be no unbelief, for in a thousand mingled voices, caroling birds, singing waterfalls, chirruping insects and whispering breezes is told the story of Divine Love, and dull indeed is the ear that cannot hear it.