I have never understood how the mountains when first seen by hunters and traders and settlers were covered with peavines. How could every cove and clearing, old field, every opening in the woods and even understories of deep woods be laced with vines and blossoms in June? They say the flowers were so thick the fumes were smothering. They tell of shining fogs of bees above the sprawling mess and every bush and sapling tangled with tender curls and tresses. I don't see how it was possible for wild peas to take the woods in shade and deep hollows and spread over cliffs in hanging gardens and choke out other flowers. It's hard to believe the creek banks and high ledges were that bright. But hardest of all is to see how such profusion, such overwhelming lushness and lavish could vanish, so completely disappear that you must look through several valleys to find a sprig or strand of wild peavine curling on a weedstalk like some word from a lost language once flourishing on every tongue.