TO THOUSAND PALM CANON loi 



At evening I climbed a hill for a sunset view. A 

 curtain of murky gold hung over all the west. The 

 sun had set cloudless behind the pass. In clear sil- 

 houette the mountains cut the glow, all their rugged- 

 ness of contour lost in shadow, leaving only peaceful 

 line and quiet color to charm the eye. Near at hand 

 the palms pointed upward with a gesture of tranquil 

 hope. 



The western gold grew duskier; the world seemed 

 dying, life passing again into its first unity. It was 

 such a desert hill as this, I thought, that was once 

 the favorite haunt of the Son of God. Often He must 

 have taken joy, like me, in the full, calm glory of 

 the evening star. 



Forage for Kaweah was limited to burro-weed 

 and a scant picking of galleta grass, that stand-by 

 of the desert horse : but I had brought a little barley 

 for emergencies, and Indian frugality had to make 

 up the balance. The breeze was broken in the shelter 

 of the house, and I took a couple of hours of camp- 

 fire comfort before turning in. I slept unharassed 

 by wind, and when I awoke, the morning star was 

 above the eastern divide, beaming on me like a 

 promise for the day. 



That morning, however, proved one of the worst, 

 in the way of heat, that I ever experienced. There 

 was something positively blasting in the air, a 

 deadly quality, as though all oxygen were with- 

 drawn. The light itself was a sickly whitish glare. 

 I should think this sort of morning must forebode 

 vast eruptions such as of Mont Pelee and the Sou- 

 friere. I breakfasted, packed, and then changed my 



