THE DESERT 



with no cry, human beings with no voice. And 

 so forsaken ! The largest river west of the 

 mountains and yet the least known. There are 

 miles upon miles of mesas stretching upward 

 from the stream that no feet have ever trodden, 

 and that possess not a vestige of life of any 

 kind. And along its banks the same tale is 

 told. You float for days and meet with no 

 traces of humanity. "When they do appear it is 

 but to emphasize the solitude. An Indian 

 wickiup on the bank, an Indian town ; yes, a 

 white man's town, what impression do they 

 make upon the desert and its river ? You drift 

 by Yuma and wonder what it is doing there. 

 Had it been built in the middle of the Pacific 

 on a barren rock it could not be more isolated, 

 more hopelessly " at sea." 



After the river crosses the border-line of 

 Mexico it grows broader and flatter than ever. 

 And still the color seems to deepen. For all its 

 suggestion of blood it is not an unlovely color. 

 On the contrary, that deep red contrasted with 

 the green of the banks and the blue of the sky, 

 makes a very beautiful color harmony. They 

 are hues of depth and substance hues that 

 comport excellently well with the character of 

 the river itself. And never a river had more 



