On this famous mountain top we were hailed by a man of middle age who belongs to that class of men who are constantly reminding you they would have made good in life if they only had a chance, despite the fact that many constant toilers find the places of more educated men who are deceived into thinking their education would take the place of honest toil. This particular man doubtless never learned that "all values have their basis in cost, and labor is the first cost of everything on which we set a price." The prizes of life are not laid upon easily accessible shelves but are placed out of reach to be labored for, like the views one gets of the valley here only after paying the price in an exceedingly toilsome journey. He was content to grope in a dead past for glories that once had been.
"I stopped you," said he, "because I saw you are from Ohio and I thought you might know some people for whom I once worked." Looking across the way at the poorly kept home with its untidy surroundings, where pigs, chickens, dogs, pet crows and children alike had access to both parlor and kitchen, we doubted whether the man could be located, for whom he ever had worked. We learned that he had business that brought him from the fertile valleys of Ohio to his mountain home. When anyone unsolicited begins to tell of his business or what it used to be, beware, for the real workers of the world have no time to tell what they are doing. "Now, you see it is like this," he said, "a man who owns forty-eight acres of timber here hired me to guard it against timber thieves. He gives me the house and all I can raise on the cleared ground, which is not much—just a few potaters, beans, and sich like. Of course, I don't live high like some, just bread and meat, no pie and cake and ice cream. The kids ain't like they used to be, they like goin's on now and then; but when I was a boy I allus tended to my business and didn't keer to be goin' all the time."
With a stick he marked in the sand the better to represent the exact boundaries of his master's possessions. Such was his accuracy of observation. We verily believe he knew every bush- heap and stonepile on this and his neighbor's line. It had been evident from his conversation that there had been some changing of stone piles and many disputes in regard to their right location. To save a certain strip of land he "done bought eleven acres more or less, then he goes down on the other side and buys twenty-nine acres more or less, twenty-eight for sure." We soon became fairly familiar with the lay of the land over which this man held ever a watchful eye while he overlooked constantly the bigger, better things of life. With such accuracy of observation of minute details, looking inwardly and not outwardly, what a character would have been his. As far as we could discern this land was mostly stone piles and bushes, with growth of evergreen and deciduous trees in some places not worth guarding.
To look at this policeman of Old Massanutten you would never surmise that he ever had a worry in all his life, but he told us that he had one. This even to us was not an imaginary one as he had seriously contemplated moving down in the valley some day. He said "'a rolling stone gathers no moss,' neither does a settin' hen grow fat, but, I'll have to find a place to set for I'm gettin' old." We thought he had set too much already. "I'd as leave move a thousand miles as one hundred yards. It's the startin' I hate."
How much of what he considered his misfortune was clue to no other than his phrase, "I hate to start." He reminded us of the girl we saw in the valley sitting out at the front gate beneath an elm tree, waiting for something to turn up. She had failed to see patches of weeds in the yard and the vegetables were crying for help, yet she heard them not. Be wary, young men, for the person who waits for something to turn up usually finds only creditors.
"I was born in 1871. Yes, I was born, bred and raised near Yellow Sulphur Springs, Ohio. I ramped around thar many a day." Looking at the flock of children who lacked many of the bare necessities of life, we thought what the Book of Books says: "He who careth not for his own is worse than an infidel."
Out across the valley we beheld the beautiful Blue Ridge rising like a grand graded way. Here was displayed a panorama that of all our Shenandoah journeys still appears as one of our most memorable mountain scenes. At our feet lay the valley interspersed with villages, homes and vast stretches of corn, oats and wheat, all clothed in that blue filmy veil making all appear like a rich garden of various emerald tints. Far away toward the horizon rose a lovely forest-crowned ridge so gloriously colored and luminous it seemed like the scene of a vast painting. Out over the tremulous billowy fields of grain and over the forest and meadow the sunlight fell in pale spangles of light over which a few gray shadows chased one another.
The sun was gilding the west as we started down the mountain side. The radiant host of evergreens stood silent in bold relief against their luminous background. High in the azure dome a few rose-colored clouds were drifting, scarce seeming to move in the light filled ether. Over all the vast expanse of sky a crimson spread which was followed by pink that was quickly succeeded by violet purple. Never had we beheld such a striking crimson sea.
Soon those radiant splendors vanished in the purple twilight. We watched the last faint color fade from the distant ridges. A soft breeze sighed among the pines and rustled the aspen leaves, then, died away. Mingled odors of pine and fern floated to us from the nearby forests. The light vanished from the sky but the mysterious charm of the time was not broken. In the east a softer and more quiet splendor tipped the foliage with silvery radiance, edging the fleecy clouds with mellow light. Only the purling music of the distant waterfall now broke the restful solemnity of the mountain solitudes. Night with its thoughts of other fairer worlds than this, was here and we with all Nature were preparing for rest.
As we drew near the Lawrence Hotel at Luray, the Moonlight Sonata floated dreamily upon the calm night air, and we seemed to feel the beauty of Hugo's lines: