THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 57 



their passing swift fading afterthoughts on those 

 mountains' rockbound sides. 



And morning after morning, under the climbing 

 sun, and evening after evening when the moon 

 swims up from behind the lonely peaks or the stars 

 creep out solitary, a breeze like the cool foam "of 

 perilous seas" in some "fairyland forlorn" scatters 

 its vivifying drops upon the heated face of the 

 Valley, and we breathe the veritable breath of life 

 as those who abide at sea-level never can do. Ours 

 is the dewless Arid Belt indeed, but ours too is the 

 keen, pure air of untrodden desert and mountain. 



It is the habit of the prosperous to declare that 

 everything has its compensations, and for once it 

 must be allowed that the prosperous are right, 

 though prating after their manner of that of which 

 they know nothing. 



There is little neighborliness in Nature here, 

 nevertheless. Even at her fairest she retains her 

 remoteness, her indifference. Yet somehow we 

 feel that it is here, just here, that she, in spite of her- 

 self enters into our heart of hearts. She who would 

 not appeal has appealed. In her often wild and al- 

 ways solemn beauty she is the embodiment of all the 

 sorrows of the world. We turn from her in vain ; 

 it is but to look and look again. 



Much is bruited around concerning the "terrific 

 heat" of our Valley. At once, without fear or 

 favor but with ample opportunities for comparison 

 at my command, I brand such yarns as arrant non- 

 sense. Women, proverbially inaccurate and unob- 

 servant where Nature's manners and customs form 



