BLOWING ROCK 353 
the air, or drive them fleeing into the far blue caverns 
of the sky, and the world beneath is visible, only that 
where the John's River Valley ought to be there 
often remains a long lake of snowy drift. Sometimes 
the clouds blotting out the landscape break apart 
suddenly, the mountains come swiftly forth one 
after the other until one seems to be watching an act 
of creation where solid forms resolve themselves out 
of chaos. The peaceful John's River Valley, winding 
far below among the wild mountains, is like a glimpse 
into fairyland, and one has never ventured to go 
there for fear of dispelling the pleasing illusion. 
Near the village of Blowing Rock, at the begin- 
ning of those green knobs between which one looks 
to the lowlands, is a high cliff, the real Blowing Rock, 
so named because the rocky walls at this point form 
a flume through which the northwest wind sweeps 
with such force that whatever is thrown over the 
rock is hurled back again. It is said that there are 
times when a man could not jump over, so tremend- 
ous is the force of the wind. It is also said that vis- 
itors, having heard the legend of the rock, have been 
seen to stand there in a dead calm and throw over 
their possessions and watch them more in anger 
than in mirth as they, obedient to the law of gravity 
instead of that of fancy, disappeared beneath the 
tree- tops far below. 
Blowing Rock, four thousand feet above sea-level, 
is a wonderfully sweet place. The rose-bay and the 
great white Rhododendron maximum crowd against 
the houses and fill the open spaces, excepting where 
