36 THE WILDERNESS AND JUNGLE 



made out of the rubbish left over at the 

 Creation, planted it with prickly pear and 

 aloes, peopled it with vipers and such-like 

 vermin, and then laughed at the horror of its 

 ugliness. This is a dreadful legend, yet it has 

 in it an element of truth. There are, no doubt, 

 books in which you may read of the beauty of 

 the desert, since beauty is, after all, a matter 

 of taste, and those whose acquaintance with 

 the merciless sand comes from picture galleries 

 may find it beautiful, even as comfortable lands- 

 men, watching a stormy sea from the safety of 

 the cliffs, find it entertaining. But ask the 

 Arabs or the seamen. They will tell another 

 story. On canvas, there may be splendour in 

 the magic of a blood-red dawn, long before 

 which the Arab has folded his tent in the 

 moonlight and stolen away on his trek. There 

 is wonder in the mirage, with its false imagery 

 of trees and caravans that have no being 

 where they seem. Yet this loveliness of the 

 desert is Dead Sea Fruit to its own folk. To 

 the veiled Tuaregs of the Sahara, to the 

 dignified nomads beyond the Jordan, the dawn 

 means another day of merciless heat, the 

 mirage is an illusion that drives thirsty men to 

 the verge of insanity, the sandstorm is a torture 

 to any creature less resisting than a camel. 

 The superstitious children of the desert look on 

 it fearfully as the abode of evil jinns that love 



