CHAPTER XVIII 



CONCLUSION 



CROSSING THE DESERT 



Still — silent — as a world abandoned in the 

 fullness of its summer prime ! 



For the boundless plains — sliding into the dis- 

 tance like emerald waves doomed never to break on 

 any mortal shore, and uplifting here and there car- 

 pets of flowers no mortal will ever cull — breathe 

 the very essence of life. Renewed and cleansed by 

 the fire and fury of midsummer storms neither death 

 nor decay has part or lot in them. The mountain 

 ranges, split as they soar heavenward into fantastic 

 shapes, glow like jewels dropped from the Book of 

 Revelations by the Hand that knows not time but 

 eternity. 



To the imagination awed by the solemnity of the 

 infinite a pillar of dust, created by some mimic 

 whirlwind and reddened by the westering sun, walks 

 as a pillar of fire, and involuntarily the ear attunes 

 itself to the sound of the Still, Small Voice. 



Gazing from the window of the railroad car some 

 shining winter day we note the tiny tracks upon the 

 sand of the unpeopled country, tracks of tiny crea- 

 tures busied each upon his own life's quest, and once 

 more the spell is upon us. We would that we could 

 say with Fabre : Tell of the intimate terms on which 

 I live with you, of the patience with which I record 



