d in the United States.
Whether one be seeking ferns or fungi or orchids or almost anything else
vegetal, each hour will bring him some new delight. In summer the upper
mountains are one vast flower garden: the white and pink of
rhododendron, the blaze of azalea, conspicuous above all else, in
settings of every imaginable shade of green.

It was the botanist who discovered this Eden for us. Far back in the
eighteenth century, when this was still "Cherokee Country," inhabited by
no whites but a few Indian-traders, William Bartram of Philadelphia came
plant-hunting into the mountains of western Carolina, and spread their
fame to the world. One of his choicest finds was the fiery azalea, of
which he recorded: "The epithet fiery I annex to this most celebrated
species of azalea, as being expressive of the appearance of its flowers;
which are in general of the color of the finest red-lead, orange, and
bright gold, as well as yellow and cream-color. These various splendid
colors are not only in separate plants, but frequently all the varieties
and shades are seen in separate branches on the same plant; and the
clusters of the blossoms cover the shrubs in such incredible profusion
on the hillsides that, suddenly opening to view from dark shades, we
are alarmed with apprehension of the woods being set on fire. This is
certainly the most gay and brilliant flowering shrub yet known."

And we of a later age, seeing the same wild gardens still unspoiled, can
appreciate the almost religious fervor of those early botanists, as of
Michaux, for example, who, in 1794, ascending the peak of Grandfather,
broke out in song: "_Monte au sommet de la plus haut montagne de tout
l'Amerique Septentrionale, chante avec mon compagnon-guide l'hymn de
Marsellois, et crie, 'Vive la Liberte et la Republique Francaise!'_"

Of course Michaux was wildly mistaken in thinking Grandfather "the
highest mountain in all North America." It is far from being even the
highest of the Appalachians. Yet we scarcely know to-day, to a downright
certainty, which peak is supreme among our Southern highlands. The honor
is conceded to Mount Mitchell in the Black Mountains, northeast of
Asheville. Still, the heights of the Carolina peaks have been taken
(with but one exception, so far as I know) only by barometric
measurements, and these, even when official, may vary as much as a
hundred feet for the same mountain. Since the highest ten or a dozen of
our Carolina peaks d