TO COACHELLA VALLEY 113 



the raven seems to tolerate this desolate spot, and 

 his morose hue, tragical voice, and general grave- 

 yard air do nothing to enliven one's impression. The 

 eye, discouraged by the crudity of the scene, in- 

 stinctively dwells upon the palm whenever it is in 

 sight, overlooking its sameness of form for the relief 

 of its grace, finish, and appearance of culture. 



From Thousand Palm Caiion I struck south- 

 westerly into the open desert. My friend's little 

 brook rippled for half a mile out of the cafion, then 

 suddenly sank into the sands. San Jacinto was 

 again in view, but purpled by distance. His load of 

 snow seemed noticeably less than at my last sight 

 of it only four days ago. 



A few miles to the west there is a tract of dunes 

 that looked worth visiting. A huge quantity of al- 

 most unmixed sand has accumulated here, and has 

 been worked up into remarkable forms. Wind and 

 the principle of cohesion operating together have 

 resulted in an arrangement of domes, half domes, 

 waves, crevasses, all the shapes that snowdrifts take, 

 but with the characteristic wind-ripple in addition. 

 The glistening whiteness of the sand carried out the 

 likeness to snow, but the sharpness of the breakage 

 lines is what made the sight so interesting. Long 

 curves, beautiful in their ease of contour, led up to 

 keen, clean-cut rims from which steep slopes ran 

 down at sharp angle. From these edges there was 

 always blowing a wavering veil of sand, as fine as 

 the spume stripped by the wind from wave crests 

 at sea. 



It was fascinating to stand in that universe of 



