The White Goat and his Country 



by a chasm sixty-five miles long. It rained 

 in the night, and at seven next morning, 

 bound for Port Columbia, we wallowed north- 

 ward out of town in the sweating canvas- 

 covered stage through primeval mud. After 

 some eighteen miles we drew out of the rain 

 area, and from around the wheels there imme- 

 diately arose and came among us a primeval 

 dust, monstrous, shapeless, and blind. First 

 your power of speech deserted you, then your 

 eyesight went, and at length you became un- 

 certain whether you were alive. Then hilar- 

 ity at the sheer discomfort overtook me, and 

 I was joined in it by a brother American; but 

 two Jew drummers on the back seat could not 

 understand, and seemed on the verge of tears. 

 The landscape was entirely blotted out by the 

 dust. Often you could not see the roadside, 

 — if the road had any side. We may have 

 been passing homes and fruit-trees, but I think 

 not. I remember wondering if getting goat 

 after all — But they proved well worth it. 

 Toward evening we descended into the 

 sullen valley of the Columbia, which rushes 

 along, sunk below the level of the desert we 

 had crossed. High sterile hills flank its 



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