SHY LIFE IN THE DESERT 229 



glyphies ; and I believe I walked a mile before 

 I saw a single footprint. Think of doing that, or 

 anything like it, in our poor, frost-bitten, winter- 

 killed, over-civilized New England ! The tracks 

 would have been a perfect crisscross. 



And, notwithstanding all this, footprints or no 

 footprints, the desert is not without its own world 

 of little people. It is a desert only to our dull, 

 provincial, self-absorbed, self-sufficient, narrow- 

 minded, egotistical human apprehension of it. 

 So much ought to be plain as day to the most 

 undiscerning traveler ; for if he so much as looks 

 where he steps (lest a snake should bite him), he 

 cannot help seeing that the ground all about is 

 almost as full of holes as a colander. Larger 

 and smaller, the earth is riddled with them. If 

 the diggers of the holes happen to be just now 

 within doors instead of gadding abroad like so 

 many restless tourists, probably their conduct is 

 not without a reason. Possibly they object to 

 cold feet. More likely they have an eye to bodily 

 safety. One thing you may wager upon, home- 

 keepers though they be the sharpness of their 

 wits. 



Whatever would live on this bare, open plain 

 must be as wise as a serpent. The remainder of 

 the text may be omitted as locally inapplicable. 

 The desert-dweller Deserticola, as we name 



