A BUTTERFLY CHASE 



where trees have made firm ground al- 

 ternating with bits of quaking bog and 

 open pools, where a misstep will drop 

 you over your head in a clinging mud 

 that never gives up what it once gets. 



Such is the fountain head, and you 

 would know you were coming to it of a 

 hot day even were your eyes shut, for 

 the ice-cold water makes its own at- 

 mosphere. We read of bodies of ice 

 that have lasted since the glacial age 

 buried under these terminal moraines 

 whence well such cooling springs.; I do 

 not know about the ice, but I can testify 

 to the cold, sparkling water and the 

 grateful atmosphere which it dissem- 

 inates on these our Arabian days. Yet 

 you must mark well your going. Just 

 under the slope the water boils up 

 through fine sand that dances in the up 

 current. A few feet farther down it 

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