IMPERIAL VALLEY TO YUMA 301 



exact appearance of a flooded expanse of wooded 

 country. 



I stopped for an hour at noon under a bit of scrub 

 that ironically offered shade. Betokening approach 

 to the river, a butcher-bird appeared and vented 

 his chronic ill-temper in screeches of abuse. Three 

 sand-martins made better company. There is some 

 spiritual quality in the happiness of all birds of the 

 swallow tribe. 



By this time Pilot Knob had become a threaten- 

 ing volcano under sulphurous-looking clouds, and I 

 resigned myself to a thumping deluge. There was a 

 chance that by hurrying we might escape, so we 

 pushed on and were soon rounding the shoulder of 

 the mountain. It was just twenty-five years since I 

 had last passed this point, entering California for 

 the first time. Under these circumstances the dark 

 pyramid, like a quarter-century milestone, sug- 

 gested serious reflections: but those clouds made it 

 seem unwise to stand about moralizing, and again 

 self-examination was successfully dodged. 



Turning eastward I made toward the railway. 

 Soon there appeared an expanse of bright green, the 

 willow-covered flats of the Colorado River. A mile 

 or two brought us to the railway, and, as I expected, 

 to a road which took us to the river. Rain or not, I 

 halted for half an hour to pay my homage to one of 

 the great rivers of the North American continent, 

 and the one perhaps most endowed with geological 

 interest, by reason of that marvellous caflon which 

 may be named the greatest natural wonder of the 

 world. 



