THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 207 



some route ; but this has been one of the times when 

 I leave my chauffeur to his reflections. 



The range on either side of us is dotted now with 

 stunted trees and bushes, and from out of one, al- 

 most within handclasp, flits a mountain wren from 

 her nest. 



"A nest in the first week of February !" I exclaim. 



'Yes. At this altitude, six to seven thousand 

 feet above sea-level, the birds keep house most of 

 the year. And look at the house !" 



A home nest in very truth! Roofed and walled 

 snugly, with just a bit of a door for a bit of a bird! 



Gradually we approach the tremendous wall of 

 rock which marks the eastern limit of "the moun- 

 tain." 



"Why is the shadow on it so velvety? Shadows 

 here are generally so sharp and distinct." 



"Wait, and you will see why," enjoins my chauf- 

 feur. 



I wait and I do see ; for when we come to a halt 

 and look upward to the purple softness of it I per- 

 ceive that its sheer face is clothed with desert 

 growths — dwarf cedars, Spanish Daggers, grease- 

 wood and bunches of gramma grass, and so 

 far as mortal eye can discern not an ounce 

 of soil to support this vegetation. And right 

 in the heart of this overwhelming "tumble of 

 rocks" nestles, my chauffeur tells me, a green glade, 

 real grass and a living spring — one, and perhaps 

 more, of such surprises. But it, or they, is far and 

 hard to seek and find, for in the desert country 

 Nature guards her secrets jealously. 



