64 



THE DESERT 



On the 

 desert. 



The lower 

 river. 



into froth. At last, its canyon course run, ex- 

 hausted and helpless, it is pushed through the 

 escarpments, thrust out upon the desert, to find 

 its way to the sea as best it can. Its spirit is 

 broken, its vivacity is extinguished, its color is 

 deepened to a dark red the trail of blood that 

 leads up to the death. Wearily now it drifts 

 across the desert without a ripple, without a 

 moan. Like a wounded snake it drags its length 

 far down the long wastes of sand to where the 

 blue waves are flashing on the Calif ornian Gulf. 

 And there it meets obliteration. 



After the clash and roar of the conflict in the 

 canyons how impressive seems the stillness of 

 the desert, how appalling the unbroken silence 

 of the lower river ! Day after day it moves sea- 

 ward, but without a sound. You start at its 

 banks to find no waves, no wash upon gravel 

 beaches, no rush of water over shoals. Instead 

 of the soothing murmur of breaking falls there 

 is at times the boil of currents from below 

 waters flung up sullenly and soon flattened 

 into drifting nothingness by their own weight. 



And how heavily the stream moves ! Its load 

 of silt is gradually settling to the bottom, yet 

 still the water seems to drag upon the shores. 

 Every reef of sand, every island of mud, every 



