Part 4

The scenery along the torrents of Soco creek, down the western slope of the Balsams, rivals in variety and picturesque effect that of any place in the Appalachians. There are no grand chasms, nor grand cascades. There is nothing, indeed, which calls for superlative adjectives, unless, possibly, we except the immensity of the trees, the unbroken carpeting of moss, and the perfect grace of tall ferns. There is, in the curves of the torrent, as it bounds over precipices and down rapids, compelling us to cross its noisy channel at least twenty times; in the conformation of the glens through which we rode; in the massiveness and towering height of the great chain, up whose side we were climbing; in the white fragments of rock, which reflect the sun light from the stream’s channel and the highway; in the rounded cliffs, so modest that they keep themselves perpetually robed in a seamless vesture of moss; in the ferns, the shrubs, the trees, in the absolute solitude and loneliness of the place,--there is something so complex in its effect upon the interested student of nature that he is unwearied by the two hours and a half required to make the ascent.

IN THE HAUNTS OF THE BLACK BEAR.

The bear, with shaggy hide Red-stained from blood of slaughtered swine, at night Slain by him on the mountain’s lower side, Roused by the breaking light, Comes growling to his lair. Distant, the baying of an eager pack, Like chiming bells, sweeps thro’ the chilly air Above the scented track.