Tbe White Goat 265 



descend to it from the parched bare dust and the 

 strewn black boulders of the table-land, is a 

 sweeping, sullen, shadeless flood, the most un- 

 lovely river that ever I have seen. 



I like, when I can, to bring support to my 

 opinions. On a later day, in the middle of the 

 Big Bend, I came upon a desolate sign-post, 

 placed there no doubt to cheer up the wayfarer's 

 discouraged heart. This post announced that 

 Central Ferry was thirty-five miles distant; and 

 below this a wayfarer had scrawled his personal 

 comment: 



Forty-five miles to water. 

 And a subsequent wayfarer had added : 



Seventy-five miles to wood. 

 And a final wayfarer : 



Two and one-half miles to hell. 



Ah, the dauntless, invaluable spirit of man! 

 Those few words scrawled by a hand that I 

 should like to shake, made the desert blossom 

 with humor, and I continued on my journey with 

 a smiling heart. 



Three nights out from the cockroaches, and I 

 was sleeping in the open, among pleasant hills. 



