abin just raised by their efforts stood
in the Yadkin, within sight of the great mountains the pioneers were
one day to cross, perhaps a sudden bird note warning from the lookout,
hidden in the brush, would bring the builders with a leap to their feet.
It might be only a hunting band of friendly Catawbas that passed, or
a lone Cherokee who knew that this was not his hour. If the latter, we
can, in imagination, see him look once at the new house on his hunting
pasture, slacken rein for a moment in front of the group of families,
lift his hand in sign of peace, and silently go his way hillward. As
he vanishes into the shadows, the crimson sun, sinking into the unknown
wilderness beyond the mountains, pours its last glow on the roof of the
cabin and on the group near its walls. With unfelt fingers, subtly, it
puts the red touch of the West in the faces of the men--who have just
declared, through the building of a cabin, that here is Journey's End
and their abiding place.

There were community holidays among these pioneers as well as labor
days, especially in the fruit season; and there were flower-picking
excursions in the warm spring days. Early in April the service berry
bush gleamed starrily along the watercourses, its hardy white blooms
defying winter's lingering look. This bush--or tree, indeed, since it
is not afraid to rear its slender trunk as high as cherry or crab
apple--might well be considered emblematic of the frontier spirit in
those regions where the white silence covers the earth for several
months and shuts the lonely homesteader in upon himself. From the
pioneer time of the Old Southwest to the last frontier of the Far North
today, the service berry is cherished alike by white men and Indians;
and the red men have woven about it some of their prettiest legends.
When June had ripened the tree's blue-black berries, the Back Country
folk went out in parties to gather them. Though the service berry was
a food staple on the frontier and its gathering a matter of household
economy, the folk made their berry-picking jaunt a gala occasion. The
women and children with pots and baskets--the young girls vying with
each other, under the eyes of the youths, as to who could strip boughs
the fastest--plucked gayly while the men, rifles in hand, kept guard.
For these happy summer days were also the red man's scalping days and,
at any moment, the chatter of the picnickers might be interrupted by the
chilling war whoop.