The sun was rising over still seas of white mist and wave after wave of blue Virginia hills. In the shadows below, it smote the mists into tatters; leaf and bush glittered as though after a heavy rain, and down Hale went under a trembling dew-drenched world and along a tumbling series of waterfalls that flashed through tall ferns, blossoming laurel and shining leaves of rhododendron.
…from the first American novel ever to sell one million copies, set in my home, by John Fox Jr., who happens to be from said home, and who, even more impressively, was one of Big Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.
Fox wasn’t much for wordplay, but man oh man could he paint a picture. Who writes like that anymore? Image for image’s sake? And why on Earth don’t they? Criminal. Though I do have a sneaking suspicion that in 2014, Fox wouldn’t be admitted to any respectable MFA programs. Too much writing in his writing.