Ter to F ceM,^ a copy Ye “ r ^ NEW YORK, THURSDAY, MAY 28, 1874. \ 17 Chatham St. (CityHall Sqr.) 
For Forest and Stream. 
MOTHER BROWN. 
DECORATION DAT, 1874. 
E VERYONE called her “Mother” Brown 
In that little hamlet, half-way down 
In the blood and terror of Borderland— 
“Rebel” and “Yank” on either hand. 
The little village had suffered through 
All the struggle of Gray and Blue, 
Suffered, and lived as some shallop trim 
O’er a proud Armada’s grave might swim. 
The storm is past. But the heaving waves 
Speak in the wind o’er the grassy graves 
To many a weary heart in the little town; 
Two have voices for Mother Brown. 
Two bra/e boys were the widow’s mite 
To th’ accursed fratriici^al fight; 
<One with the wayward South went forth, 
One stood fast with the loyal North. 
Both to their duty in simple style, 
With the unknown Great of the rank and file; 
'Doing and dying to some account, 
As ciphers that swell a grand amount! 
And then they came home to the mother’s side, 
And to the mother heart thrice crucified. 
Side by side in the churchyard gray, 
They are waiting the angel’s reveillee. 
Never a monument, never a stone, 
Naught in the wild flowers gently strewn, 
Naught but the love in a mother’s heart 
To tell the two low, mounds apart. 
For the flowers spring up in the rank,"low land, 
Trained by nature’s impartial hand, 
And the wreaths and the tears fall from above, 
Blessed by a mother’s equal love. 
Only the bigot’s blinded view 
Sees not glory in Gray or Blue. 
Only the stay-at-home heroes say 
Which was the braver—Blue or Gray? J. J. Roche. 
Boston, Mass., May 22, 1874. 
For Forest and Stream. 
$£ront ^egioqs off Jjf orth ^nrolimt. 
IVTOW, when “stern winter no longer rules the skies,” 
aN and the bleak March blasts have blown themselves 
out, the denizens of our closely packed cities and towns 
begin to long for shady forests, limpid streams, and the 
delicious abandon of a lazy summer vacation. Especially 
ate the disciples of the rod casting around to find, if pos¬ 
sible, some new locality where they can practice their gen¬ 
tle art. The places to which they have heretofore resorted 
have become so familiar to the public that they are overrun 
by civilization (?) in its worst forms. Pot hunters and pho¬ 
tographers, parasols and pinafores, crinoline and croquet, 
steamboats and shoddy, hotels and hostlers, railroads and 
reporters now swarm over spots consecrated and long en¬ 
deared to the heart of many a gallant sportsman. 
In the language of Truthful James, well may he exclaim, 
Shall these things be?” I answer Mo! Let these parve- 
flues hold on to their usurpations; we will seek new fields 
find streams, and erect our temples in some remote spot 
Where for awhile, at least, we shall have no companion but 
There is in North Carolina a large territory which I 
venly believe to be unsurpassed on the continent for ad¬ 
vantages as a quiet summer resort. There is not a railroad 
or navigable stream in it. It has long been known and ap¬ 
preciated by the dwellers on the South Atlantic and Gulf 
poasts, and prior to the “late unpleasantness” was a favor - 
lte re h'eat for them from the fierce heats of their more 
southern homes, but since the war, as a general thing, their 
£ ri Ppled fortunes have not permitted their return. A few 
five found it impossible to resist the attractions, and 
am mg them is that true gentleman and prince of sports* 
meQ > Gen. Wade Hampton. 
Upon an examination of the map it will be observed that 
in Virginia the Great Chain of the Alleghany Mountains 
divides, one range preserving the original name and south¬ 
westerly direction, while the other diverges toward the 
south until it crosses the State of North Carolina, where it 
turns sharply towards the west, running almost parallel 
with the Alleghanies until it gradually sinks into the plains 
of northern Alabama. This last range is called the Blue 
Ridge, and divides North Carolina from South Carolina 
and Georgia. The first is the boundary between North 
Carolina and Tennessee. That portion of the State lying 
west and north of the Blue Ridge, and south of the Alle¬ 
ghanies, is known as western North Carolina. It is about 
one hundred and seventy-five miles in length, with an ave¬ 
rage breadth of seventy-five miles. It embraces sixteen 
counties, about seven thousand square miles, and has a popu¬ 
lation of over eighty thousand. In the early history of the 
State this entire area constituted but one county—Bun¬ 
combe—and the often quoted and misspelt expression, 
“speaking for Buncombe,” originated from the member for 
this district while making an extraordinarily dull speech in 
the House of Representatives many years ago. 
This section has frequently been described as a plateau, 
but it is in fact a very mountainous region, being divided 
into a number of narrow but exceedingly fertile and beau¬ 
tiful valleys by transverse ranges connecting the Allegha¬ 
nies and Blue Ridge, suggesting a resemblance to the cele¬ 
brated ligament which bound together the Siamese twins. 
The Black Mountain, in Buncombe and Yancey counties, 
and the Balsam, in Hey wood and Jackson counties, are the 
most noted of these transversal ranges. Indeed, Professor 
Guyot, of Cambridge, who has given great attention to this 
region, and has made careful barometrical measurement of 
several of the highest summits, denominates it as the cul¬ 
minating point of the great Appalachian Chain. On,the 
Black Mountain are several peaks—Mt. Mitchell, Clingman’s 
Peak, and a dozen others, higher than Mt. Washington, 
and on the Balsam is Mt. Pisgali, Plott’s Balsam, and five 
or six more, all of which tower more than six thousand 
feet above the sea. No description can convey a clear idea 
of the remarkable parallelism of the ridges and valleys 
which characterize the topography of this region, or the 
grand and beautiful features of its scenery. To compre¬ 
hend all its grandeur, and appreciate all its beauty, one 
must climb its mountains and wander among its valleys. 
Probably the greatest charm is the magnificent climate. 
From May till November is one conlinued season of health, 
beauty, and enjoyment. The nights are deliciously cool, 
allowing sound and refreshing slumber, and as the morning 
advances the sun pours down hot rays, which would b e 
oppressive but for the breezes from the high tops and 
shaded glens of the mountains. I believe a long series of 
observations show the maximum temperature to be about 
eighty-five degrees, the mean summer temperature being 
about seventy-two degrees. This extraordinary dryness of 
the atmosphere has a fine, exhilarating elfect on the sys¬ 
tem, especially for invalids, and renders the country free 
from annoying insects. Mosquitoes and black flies are un¬ 
known. 
The valleys have an average elevation of two thousand 
feet, and are generally well studded with farms and ham¬ 
lets, but the mountains are, and for centuries to come will 
remain, wildernesses. In them game is abundant, but in 
the settlements it is growing scarce, owing to the discredit¬ 
able indifference of the people and law makers on the sub¬ 
ject of game laws. Now, without stint or limit, any one 
may shoot, trap, kill, slaughter, butcher, and destroy till 
his savage instinct is satiated. Several individual efforts 
have been made within the last two years to secure some 
legislation for the protection of game, but so far without 
effect. Still we do not despair, and propose to organize 
clubs and endeavor thus to discuss and agitate the question 
till our object is accomplished. 
The valleys have each their principal stream, taking its 
rise in the northern slope of the Blue Ridge, and flowing 
in a northerly course through the Alleghanies into the Ten- 
nesse Yalley. It is a remarkable fact that while the Blue 
Ridge has a lower elevation than its sister chain, the 
streams all head in it, and run through the others, cutting 
deep chasms and gorges. It frequently happens that one 
may in the space of five minutes dip a cup of sparkling 
water from two springs, one sendiug its tribute down the 
southern slope to the Atlantic, the other in the opposite 
direction to the Gulf, to meet after months of wandering, 
having traversed every variety of soil and climate beneath 
a tropical sun. All of these streams are pretty well sup¬ 
plied with fish. In some they are very'abundant, the pike 
and black bass of the south, both very game, being the 
most desirable. But it is the head waters and tributaries of 
these rivers where the joy of the angler’s heart—the 
speckled trout—is to be found in untold numbers. They 
are not large, seldom exceeding eighteen inches in length, 
and averaging not more than nine; but their great number 
compensates for their size. Indeed, it is a question whether 
it is not better sport to whip one of these mountain streams, 
with the excitement continually at the boiling point, than 
casting lazily from a boat or clear shore with a strike once 
every three hours. It is no easy work to fish one of these 
streams. They come rushing down the mountain gorges, 
leaping over cascades, boiling, foaming, and roaring be¬ 
neath the sombre balsam, hemlock, and rhododendron, 
often for miles without a ray of sunshine being able to 
penetrate the dense foliage. You must wade, and the water 
is decidedly cold, the current rapid and strong, and the 
rocks—well, slick don’t express it. He who essays a day’s 
sport here must be prepared for anything in the way of a 
ducking. He will not go far before his heels fly up and his 
scalp is introduced to the acquaintance of the rocks at the 
bottom. I would be delighted to see some of the fancy 
chaps tackle the “North Fork” or “Callaloocha,” with his 
patent boots, hat, and all the paraphernalia with which 
they usually travel. I opine he would be seized with a de¬ 
sire to go home before dinner: Last summer ,a dandified 
attache of a Government office in Washington came down, 
and I watched his first efforts with great curiosity. In less 
than ten minutes he “had gone and done it.” There was 
not a dry thread or hair about him, and he was lying gasp¬ 
ing on the bank feebly articulating for “speerits.” He 
however had the true grit, and went at it again, and before 
the trip was over he had several opportunities to retort the 
joke. To the true sportsmen all these things add to the 
charms of the sport. To me the highest felicity is the re¬ 
turn at nightfall to the camp, wet, cold, hungry, and tired, 
to see the spoils of the day nicely frizzing and browning on 
the fire, to change the wet for warm, dry clothing, a heal¬ 
thy “smile,” a dozen trout for my supper, the soothing pipe 
while recounting the incidents of the day, the sound, re¬ 
freshing sleep to the lullaby of the roaring stream, while 
the bright stars keep watch overhead. I wish I could find 
words to convey to your readers some idea of the splendid 
days I have had in these mountains. But all descriptions 
of fishing expeditions read alike, and I can only say to you 
and your patrons, come and see and feel for yourself. 
Should any one be disposed to visit the country of which 
I have given but an imperfect idea, thereare several routes 
open. Asheville is well situated for a starting point, being, 
geographically, in the centre of the region. From New 
York or any of the New England or eastern States, the 
best route is via Richmond, Danville, Salisbury to Old 
Fort, by rail, thence across the ridge twenty-four miles by 
stage, a daily line connecting with railroad. From north¬ 
west via Louisville, Nashville, Knoxville to Wolf Creek, 
thence by stage forty-four miles—a daily line. From the 
south either one of the routes mentioned will be found con¬ 
venient. 
In conclusion, let me say that there does not exist on the 
face of the earth a people more honest and hospitable than 
in the mountains of western North Carolina. They do not 
know how to cheat or extort, but in their humble and sim¬ 
ple homes they extend a welcome and entertain the stran¬ 
ger with that whole hearted kindness not to be found in the 
conventional circles of more refined life. 
“Buncombe,” 
Asheville , JV. G., April 25th, 1874. 
