356 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
along. Is that a bird? Or is it your own heart sing- 
ing? 
Before the first freshness of that laurel-hedged 
road has begun to dim from familiarity, you emerge 
into the open where the view is of wide, rolling slopes, 
green hills and valleys dotted with roofs, and beyond 
these the great blue distant mountains soaring up 
into the sky. That steep hill to your left is bright- 
red with sorrel, a sorry crop for the farmer, but a 
lovely spot of color in the landscape. You climb 
up this sorrel-red hill to the top of Flat Top Moun- 
tain, up over the rough stones and the dark-red sorrel 
to where the view is wide and fine. But Flat Top 
Mountain offers you more than a view. It is noon 
when you get there, for you have not hurried, but 
have stopped every moment to smell or to see, or 
just to breathe and breathe as though you could thus 
fill your bodily tissues with freshness and fragrance 
to last into your remotest life. As you climb up 
Flat Top, you detect a fragrance that does not come 
from the flowers, a warm, delicious fragrance that 
makes you look eagerly at the ground. Seeing 
nothing, you go on half disappointed, half buoyant 
with the certainty of success — ah, it comes again, 
that delicious warm fragrance. You abandon your- 
self to primitive instincts and trusting your senses 
turn about and walk straight to where the ground is 
red with ripe strawberries. You sit down on the 
warm grass and taste the delectable fruit. A bird is 
singing from a bush as though sharing in your 
pleasure. When you have gathered the best within 
