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HEMLOCK TWIGS 
 
 AND 
 
 BALSAM SPRIGS 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES PEELE PARKER 
 
 BLACK MOUNTAIN PRINTERY 
 
^^'^ll'v^'^ 
 
 h^%^^ 
 
 Copyright, 1921, James Peele Parker 
 
 ©CU652181 
 
Illustrations on pages 6, 10, 12, 16, 20, 22, 26, 
 28 and 30 used by permission. 
 
Foreword 
 
 A line or two for seeing eyes, 
 A word for hearing ears, 
 
 And in between a good wish lies 
 For all the coming years. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 Page Five 
 
Here's to our Free-land, hail to her colors ! 
 
 Here's to our High-land ! 
 
 Here's to our Sky-land! 
 Here's to our Home-land, surpass'ng all others! 
 
 Page Seven 
 
Our Highland Temple 
 
 With His own omnipotent hand, 
 
 God has crowned our fair Highland 
 
 With Nature's temple, vast and grand, 
 Chis'ling aisles through granite gorges that men may to its 
 altar come ; 
 
 Has strung the forests into lyres, 
 
 Placed the mountains for its spires, 
 
 Turn'd sunsets into offering fires. 
 Set the stars for lighted tapers, and truss'd the sky up for 
 its dome. 
 
 Hast thou crossed its lofty portals? 
 
 Gateways fit for the Immortals, 
 
 And e'er open to those mortals 
 Who delight in Nature's friendship, who comrade with the 
 wilderness. 
 
 To learn that altar's excellence 
 
 Hast thou trod in solemn silence 
 
 Up those aisles in reverence? 
 'Fore it knelt, with soul uncovered, confessing all thy little- 
 ness? 
 
 Page Nine 
 
Hast thou caught the ages' anthem 
 
 From o'er the choir-loft's gilded hem ? 
 
 And didst thou breathe a deep amen ? 
 Hast thou loitered in the alcoves, hung with tapestries 
 sublime? 
 
 What ! Hast thou never felt the spell ? 
 
 Had thy soul with inspiration well 
 
 Beneath this Temple's organ swell, 
 That keeps those silent alcoves quivering with melody and 
 rhyme? 
 
 Then come with me and climb to where 
 We mount this altar's wind-swept stair. 
 And let us bow in worship there, 
 
 Rendering to its Master Builder all our sacrificial vows. 
 Hast thou any offering brought — 
 One new, one pure unblemished thought — 
 That may in fervent prayer be wrought ? 
 
 Then lift it up, and God will sprinkle incense from His bal- 
 sam boughs. 
 
 Page Eleven 
 
"Is Passiunate with Soi 
 
Spring-Time 
 
 The Earth's great heart is throbbing fast, 
 Her Hf e-blood's flow is strong ; 
 
 She fears no more the Winter's blast, 
 Is pass'onate with song. 
 
 She folds the winds in loving arms, 
 
 Smiles at the deep blue sky, 
 Laughs at the storm-clouds' fierce alarms 
 
 And drinks their burdens dry. 
 
 Page Thirteen 
 
Craggy 
 
 Yestermorn I saw the first bright gleam of sunrise place 
 a golden crown on Craggy's hoary head, then watched in 
 silent wonder as the warm descending rays furled a robe of 
 purple glory over all his majesty. 
 
 Last night, the * Frost King" marshaled all his allies 
 
 forth and stormed the rugged pile from base to summit's 
 
 topmost cliff, leaving there an icy helmet where had been 
 the crown of gold. 
 
 Today I saw that helmet catch the first red rays athwart 
 the morn, and scatter them in silvery shimmerings to the 
 waking earth and sky; then as the flood of sunlight slowly 
 spread upon his widening slopes, the grand old mountain 
 seemed transfigured before my eager eyes — behold a lofty 
 crystal pyramid arose, whose glittering apex clove a drift- 
 ing cloud, and whose brilliant whiteness well might rival in 
 its purity, that of the Great White Throne of God. 
 
 Page Fifteen 
 
Mount Mitchell 
 
 Where Western Carolina's matchless clime flings loudest 
 forth its challenge to the spheres, 
 
 Mount Mitchell, thron'd in grandeur, sits above his dark 
 majestic peers; 
 
 Sovereign o'er all that beauteous realm where scenic won- 
 ders never cease ; 
 
 Proud Guardian of that gallery where Nature's hung her 
 masterpiece. 
 
 A million Summers' blossomings are wafting wide their per- 
 fume from his balsam groves ; 
 
 A million Winters' frescoings bear record in his bouldered 
 coves ; 
 
 And yet he's young — how young, who knows? 
 
 Through future ages yet unrung, he'll be the firsi to mark 
 
 the birth of each new day. 
 And last to see its evening splendor into darkness fade 
 
 away ; 
 Through cycling seasons yet unflung, he'll watch the 
 
 thunderstorm's wild frolic at his knees. 
 And for satisfying toys, lend the tempest all his forest 
 
 trees ; 
 Through all the aeons yet unsung, his sceptre'll wave o'er 
 
 Appalachia's towering crest. 
 While floating clouds, to break their portless journeys, moor 
 
 upon his breast ; 
 
 Since when ? Till when ? God only knows. 
 
 Page Seventeen 
 
Blue Ridge 
 
 Between long sheltering arms thrust down to touch the 
 racing waters of the upper Swannanoa, the Blue Ridge 
 Mountains spread a deep and rugged lap to nurse a wild 
 primeval forest. Beneath this forest's shade, ten thousand 
 rich ungarnered harvests of leaf and flower and seed, have 
 falbn into black decay that next year's harvest might the 
 richer be. Here the native pansy lifts its freckled face be- 
 neath the hemlock's tapering spar, and modest violets bow 
 in homage at the great oak's chancel rail ; here orchids nod 
 their curious heads beside the fronded fern and ebony stems 
 of maidenhair lean close to the giant poplar's bole; here 
 laurel shrubs their waxen cups unfold, and rhododendron 
 thickets sift their gorgeous petals down; here the wild 
 musicians of the cove select them each a swinging stage, 
 and undisturbed by plaudits of a giddy throng, pour out 
 their lives in rapturous song. 
 
 Page Nineteen 
 
«1 
 
 i H 3 I U 
 
 i i Mn 
 
 ir 
 
 !^^ 
 
 'A Stately Shrine. 
 
Here, too, consecrated leaders among the students of 
 the South, have given to the keeping of that ample lap, a 
 foster child — have builded there by faithful prayer and un- 
 remitting toil, a stately shrine. A shrine where every soul 
 is urged to take the Christian High Priest's covenant, and 
 enter unafraid within his own Most Holy Place — Blue 
 Ridge, the Southern Student's sacred shrine ! Where every 
 noble impulse of the human heart finds freedom in the very 
 atmosphere, and inspiration leads through deep devotion's 
 silent trails to large unselfish service for mankind; where 
 all the reverential anthems of the soul swell forth, spon- 
 taneous melodies of praise, and rise in sweet accord with the 
 invisible organ of God's Great Universe. 
 
 Page Twenty-One 
 
To the Swannanoa 
 
 Where fold on fold the ancient earth hath cast her 
 rugged bosom up to meet the bending sky, spring scores of 
 laughing streamlets forth, that, trickling down beneath the 
 fragrant hemlock boughs, leap granite walls to lose them- 
 selves in gorges far below, then hurry sparkling out to find 
 a common path, and bless this smiling valley with the music 
 of a Swannanoa. 
 
 I love to watch her waters lick 
 
 The foot of yonder wooded knoll. 
 
 And catch the wildness of her music, 
 That grows yet wilder in my soul. 
 
 Page Tiue?ity-T/iree 
 
To the Swannanoa 
 
 Oh, Child of the Mountains, Oh, Child of the Sea, 
 The sound of thy waters is music to me ! 
 It stirs the emotions deep down in my soul. 
 And awakens feelings I cannot control. 
 
 'Tis freedom to walk by thy wild rocky side 
 And muse upon fancies borne on by thy tide; 
 'Tis freedom to sit on thy turbulent shore 
 And dream of the scenes thou shalt witness no more. 
 
 But look ! Look quickly ! Who now has appeared 
 
 On the crest of that cliff, uncanny and weird ? 
 
 Note the strength of his bow, the length of his spear, 
 
 The pride of his bearing, the absence of fear. 
 
 And how in his quiver the arrows are set ; 
 
 Erect in his feathers, a dark silhouette ! 
 
 'Tis a Redskin's spirit stands out in relief ! 
 
 The soul of the bravest, a Cherokee Chief ! 
 
 Page Tiuenty-Five 
 
He's come to revisit the land of his birth, 
 Again to renew the sweet friendships of earth ; 
 List to the welcome the breezes are bringing, 
 Oh, hear the glad song all Nature is singing ; 
 I, too, extend greetings, Proud Cherokee, 
 My heart's in the chorus. Stray Soul of the Free. 
 
 But gone are his huntsmen and gone is the game 
 He's seeking in vain for, the White Man's to blame ; 
 Gone, too, is the Chieftain, I see him no more. 
 Yet he leaves thy rapids as wild as of yore ; 
 And like a refrain from the Great Spirit's dell, 
 Come these echoing words of his long farewell : 
 ''Rush on Swannanoa, through woodland and lea ! 
 Still, the fields and forests pay tribute to Thee ! 
 Oh, Child of the Mountains, Oh, Child of the Sea, 
 The sound of thy waters is music to me !" 
 
 Page Twenty-Seven 
 
The Seasons 
 
 When Winter piles their gorges deep with snow, and 
 makes of every summit's crowning crag a glistening miracle, 
 they are good to look upon : when gentle Spring has touched 
 the warming mould and coaxed each hidden root to flower 
 forth, then spread abroad her emerald mantle over every 
 naked twig and bough, they indeed are more than beautiful: 
 but when Autumn gathers all the mellowness from all the 
 Summer's length of days, and beneath the sunset's sheen 
 of purple splendor, spills in reckless random over peak and 
 ridge and cove, the choicest of her colorings — then, ah, then, 
 even the Artist's brush or Poet's pen are tools too crude for 
 usefulness ! 
 
 Page Twenty-Nine 
 
Here's to the Land of the Hemlock and Spruce, 
 Here's to her hills and her mountains ; 
 
 Here's to the Land where the rivers unloose, 
 Here's to her valleys and fountains ! 
 
 Page Thirty -One 
 
iiiHim!!!.^."/ Ol" CONGRESS 
 
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