TO COACHELLA VALLEY in 



a desert hermit who did n't mind scorpions and 

 tarantulas for neighbors. 



I climbed a hill to the east, from whence I could 

 overlook a good part of the palms' territory. They 

 stood like an army, an actual forest of palms, as 

 unique a sight as can be found in our country, and 

 as beautiful in its strange, fascinating way. No 

 other plant grows with them: the straight, dark 

 pillars stand solidly on a floor deep laid with dry, 

 fallen leaves which slide and crackle under the foot. 

 As I moved among the stiff, uniform shapes I felt a 

 sense of that old Egyptian awe, the awe of over- 

 powering mass and repetition, of monotony carried 

 to the point of terror. It would have seemed quite 

 in place to meet here one of those nightmarish pro- 

 cessions we see on obelisks, or to discover faint hiero- 

 glyphs carved on those red, pylon-like shafts. 



In this caiion I first found an attractive little 

 plant, A triplex hymenelytra, which I have seen sold 

 on the streets of Los Angeles at Christmas under the 

 name of desert holly. It is a low shrub, with stiff, 

 holly-like leaves and the characteristic brittleness of 

 desert brush. The whole plant is dead white, and 

 looks much like a branch of true holly that has been 

 dipped in whitewash. 



The day was warm — io6° by two o'clock in the 

 afternoon. I drank often of the irresistible though 

 unpleasant water, and even managed a bath, which 

 left me with a sensation of being made of old india- 

 rubber. In the evening the mystery of the night- 

 wandering mules was explained when two men came 

 up the cafion. They were surprised to see me, having 



