THE SILENT RIVER 



and the line where the one leaves off and the 

 other begins is drawn as with the sharp edge of 

 a knife. Seen from the distant mountain tops 

 the river moves between two long ribbons of 

 green, and the borders are the gray and gold 

 mesas of the desert. 



Afloat and drifting down between these lines 

 of green your attention is perhaps not at first 

 attracted by the water. You are interested in 

 the thickets of alders and the occasional bursts 

 of white and yellow flowers from among the 

 bushes. They are very commonplace bushes, 

 very ordinary flowers ; but how lovely they look 

 as they seem to drift by the boat ! How silent 

 again are these clumps of alder and willow ! 

 There may be linnets and sparrows among them 

 but they do not make their presence obtrusive 

 in song. A hawk wheels along over the arrow- 

 weed looking for quail, but his wings cut the 

 air without noise. How deathly still everything 

 seems ! The water wears into the soft banks, 

 the banks keep sloughing into the stream, but 

 again you hear no splashing fall. 



And the water itself is just as soundless. 

 There is never a sunken rock to make a little 

 gurgle, never a strip of gravel beach where a 

 wave could charm you with its play. The beat 



The green 

 bands. 



Bushes and 

 ftowers. 



Soundless 

 water. 



