THE MESA TRAIL 



gathering, every terminal whorl of the 

 lupin sends up its blossom stalk, not hold- 

 ing any constant blue, but paling and 

 purpling to guide the friendly bee to vir- 

 ginal honey sips, or away from the per- 

 fected and depleted flower. The length of 

 the blossom stalk conforms to the rounded 

 contour of the plant, and of these there 

 will be a million moving indescribably in 

 the airy current that flows down the swale 

 of the wash. 



There is always a little wind on the 

 mesa, a sliding current of cooler air going 

 down the face of the mountain of its own 

 momentum, but not to disturb the silence 

 of great space. Passing the wide mouths of 

 cafions, one gets the effect of whatever is 

 doing in them, openly or behind a screen of 

 cloud, — thunder of falls, wind in the pine 

 leaves, or rush and roar of rain. The rumor 

 148 



