102 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



ocean breeze, lies the broad valley wherein we sow 

 and reap and gather in the crops. Further yet is a 

 dream of azure peaks. Here there is neither sowing 

 nor reaping; the canon is too narrow, the soil too 

 thin. But Nature is at work in her own way. From 

 the bare brown arms of the cacti finders white and 

 scarlet and golden point to the sunlit sky, and here 

 and there from the stern face of the precipice the 

 crimson blossom of some unknown flower bends a 

 bright head toward me ; on either side of the rocky 

 path by which we have climbed the steep ascent 

 chiotes lay their gray-helmeted brows in the sand, 

 or shoot triumphant spears of snowy white hung 

 with glistening bells high above the hand of the 

 rare wayfarer. 



There is a solemnity in the grandeur of this iso- 

 lated spot which finds no response in the loud-voiced 

 campers who later find their wav hither, attracted 

 by the canon's well-known springs. The sun- 

 warmed yet keen wind whispers mysteriously in 

 the stunted juniper trees, rustles through the dry 

 grass ; otherwise there is not a sound. The inhabit- 

 ed valley is so far away that, seen through its jagged 

 frame of rocks, we forget that we ever lived there 

 or ever thither can return. Sand raised by the 

 breeze becomes the smoke of vessels on an unknown 

 sea ; the silver thread of the Rio Grande a calm be- 

 twixt drifting winds; a sparse scattering of dim 

 white houses a fleet of white-winged ships. We are 

 afloat upon a nameless ocean, and know not whence 

 we come or whither we sail. 



Over the knees of the mountains rolls the "bald 



