XXXIII 
THE GRANDFATHER MOUNTAIN 
DOWN in the plains and in all the cities it is 
August. Up here it is some celestial month not 
mentioned in any calendar. For we are camping at 
the back of the Grandfather Mountain; our tents 
are pitched on a slope that is separated from the 
base of the mountain by a narrow, wedge-like little 
valley down which ripples the silvery beginning of 
the Watauga River. To be at the beginning of a 
river is guaranty of many pleasant things. Opposite 
us the mountain rises, steep, rough, and covered 
with beautiful growths. It is so near we can see the 
shades of green and even make out the forms of the 
tree-tops. On its side the clouds form, welling up 
as from a caldron of the storm gods. We are shut in 
by tree-clad slopes, excepting towards the east, where 
the view opens down the valley upon distant blue 
hills. 
Ripe blackberries hang over the roadside, and the 
bushes growing about the rocks in an abandoned 
field near us are loaded with extra good fruit. There 
is a certain pleasure in gathering one's food from the 
bushes; one is apt to gather so much more than 
bodily sustenance. You think of things in a berry 
patch, for instance, that never come to you any- 
where else ; you solve the problems of the universe 
