MECCA TO FIGTREE JOHN 185 



a quality in the scene that makes it ineffable, almost 

 subjective. 



I slept beneath the palms. Overhead the stars 

 played hide-and-seek as a gentle wind moved the 

 leaves and brought low sounds from the lake, where 

 tiny ripples plashed on the beach. Once a deeper 

 sound came, as if by subterranean ways, to my ears: 

 a heavy train was rumbling down the valley to 

 Yuma. I sat up and watched the speck of light from 

 the engine, ten miles away across the water, and 

 fancied I heard the ghost of a whistle as it neared 

 the Salton siding. There was no doubt in the case, 

 however, when the coyotes began to sing grace over 

 their fish bones. Such a hullabaloo came from the 

 shore as one would think must signify some "vast 

 immedicable woe." But no, that is the coyote's way 

 of enjoying himself. As a rule I enjoy it too, but 

 now I wanted to sleep, so fired my revolver to see 

 what the effect would be. There were ten seconds of 

 sweetest silence: then the hubbub was redoubled 

 and mounted to a crisis. Well, I would have it a 

 smoking concert, at least, so lighted my pipe and 

 talked to Kaweah until the performers grew tired 

 and took their way homeward, their farewells coming 

 in touching diminuendo from some distant caiion. 



