THE HOME OF CHAOS 151 



away by the stock which was sent thither in 

 seasons of exceptional drought. A recent 

 freshet had carpeted the shaded ground with 

 soft, white sand. A dip in the tepid water 

 refreshed one; the gentle, lapping wavelets 

 whispered of coolness to come. But the river, 

 so gentle that day, could at times arise like a 

 wrathful Titan. In a high cliff-crevice hung a 

 large tree-trunk flung up and wedged there 

 during some recent flood. 



Who could paint the terrific desolation of 

 that home of chaos, — the towering peaks, the 

 jutting ledges, the Cyclopean, bulging pro- 

 tuberances? That amphitheatre was surely 

 the haunt of some ferocious, inimical Nature- 

 spirit — brother to Death and a hater of Life. 

 Yet life flourished even here, for the river, like 

 a mother holding her children with tender 

 clasp, led westward her progeny of trees over 

 strait and perilous pathways. But the feet of 

 the brood dared not stray from the hem of her 

 garment. 



The sun sank; as the glare was withdrawn 

 each salient detail of the Titanic arena grew 

 clearer and more definite against the back- 

 ground of darkening blue. Then shadow 

 gathered all into her fold, and it was upon a 

 pit whose black sides threatened to fall in and 



