346 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
of the gorge. Its voice alone asserts Its Importance. 
And how insistent, how unbroken, how hard and 
tiresome it Is, a stupid unchanging roar, and blended 
with it Is an echo as unresonant and monotonous as 
itself. You find yourself listening for a change that 
never comes, except a loudening when the wind 
blows towards you. 
Irritated by the monotonous sounds you go on and 
around a curve out of sight of the vociferous ribbon. 
You seat yourself on a bed of dry, crackling moss 
that sends out waves of fragrance every time you 
move. Here the murmur of the far-down river 
blends with the dull roar of the cataract. This voice 
of the river Is full of modulations, the harsh sound 
of conflict has given place to gentler tones and the 
subdued roar of the fall itself now makes an agree- 
able accompaniment. 
To the song of the river is here also added voices 
from the forest, a sighing from the pine trees over- 
head, gentle rustlings from the crisp shrubs, a stac- 
cato chirp from the grass, a trill from some bird in 
the air, the clapping of a woodpecker on a dead tree, 
the drumming of some unknown creature, the tick- 
ing of a borer in a dead log. There are drowsy notes 
in this orchestra of the summer, with which the 
mighty perfume of the earth seems gradually to 
blend, and the warmth of the sun to mingle and hold 
all together in its tenuous threads — and — and — 
the sun conquers and you are sound asleep on the 
fragrant mosses, although It is mid-afternoon and 
you have planned a walk down that long ridge where 
