126 



THE DESERT 



are often quite wonderful. The reversed moun- 

 tain peaks, with light and shade and color upon 

 them, wave in and out of the imaginary lake, 

 and are perhaps succeeded by undulations of 

 horizon colors in grays and pinks, by sunset 

 skies and scarlet clouds, or possibly by the 

 white cap of a distant sierra that has been 

 caught in the angle of reflection. 



But with all its natural look one is at loss to 

 understand how it could ever be seriously ac- 

 cepted as a fact, save at the first blush. People 

 dying for water and in delirium run toward it 

 at least the more than twice-told tales of trav- 

 ellers so report but I never knew any healthy 

 eye that did not grow suspicious of it after the 

 first glance. It trembles and glows too much 

 and soon reveals itself as something intangible, 

 hardly of earth, little more than a shifting fan- 

 tasy. You cannot see it clear-cut and well-de- 

 fined, and the snap-shot of your camera does 

 not catch it at all. 



Yet its illusiveness adds to, rather than de- 

 tracts from, its beauty. Eose-colored dreams are 

 always delightful ; and the mirage is only a 

 dream. It has no more substantial fabric than 

 the golden haze that lies in the canyons at sun- 

 set. It is only one of nature's veilings which 



