2 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
begin anywhere in particular, and trail off to no- 
where, a ravishing maze of pink blossoms. Some- 
times crowding close to the track, they fly past the 
car window a mere blur of color. Again a shining 
band of them stands still on the brow of a distant 
hill. The sky above is blue. The warm red earth is 
overlaid with tawny stubble, excepting where the 
plough has turned up a bright field. The air is soft 
and full of the smell of the earth. All Nature is in 
tune with the joyous peach trees. 
In the yards are yellow bushes and dafi"odils. 
Snowy clusters of wild plums or of service blossoms 
shine out from the woods here and there, but the 
event of the day is the endless procession of blossom- 
ing peach trees. They go dancing by, hour after 
hour; trees, old and young, large and small, standing 
in all attitudes, graceful, laughing, exquisite — there 
is no end to them. From the sea to the mountains, 
the whole South is smiling through a veil of peach 
blossoms. 
As finally you approach the mountains that form 
the western end of North Carolina, you catch glimpses 
of heights so divinely blue that you seem about to 
enter some dream world through their magical por- 
tals. 
Through an opening between the mountains the 
train makes its way, and at an elevation of about a 
thousand feet leaves you at Traumfest, and contin- 
ues its course up and over the difficult barrier of the 
Blue Ridge. For Traumfest lies in a nook of the Blue 
Ridge Mountains, and although it may not appear 
