miles from Hancock we crossed a long stone bridge over a stream
with the unpronounceable name of "Conococheaque creek." This
valley was inhabitated by other than the whites in days gone by.
Here, where the golden harvest waits to be garnered, the Indian
maize grew in abundance; their camps and villages were scattered
here and there when the country was a wilderness. The dogwood
pitched its white tent here in early spring and the royal color
of the redbud shone from the steep hillsides like purple
bonfires, the same hepaticas with their blue, pink and white
blossoms peeped from among the moss and leaves to gladden their
hearts.

One afternoon we saw rolling masses of cumulus clouds rising
above the far blue ridges; then as they drifted nearer the
bright green of the forest made a background which brought out
in relief their finely modeled forms. They seemed to hang
motionless there until the sudden crash of thunder burst upon
the hushed air with violent explosions, where the cliffs took it
up and repeated it to the neighboring hills, and they in turn
told it to still others until its far away echoes died among the
more distant ridges. For a time the rain came down in torrents,
and as we watched its silvery sheets spreading over the hills
and through the valley it seemed as if every leaf and flower and
grass blade instantly took on new life. How fresh and pure the
old trees looked! The fragrance from the pine, sweet-scented
fern and numerous mints was more pronounced. "Detached clouds
seemed to be continually leaving the main mass like scouts sent
out in advance to drop their silver spears on the heads of ferns
and flowers on other hills." Some of the detached portions moved
up the valley, others rose slowly above the wooded ridges or