BLYTHE TO COACHELLA VALLEY 357 



tap was a miracle; not less so the watermelon I cap- 

 tured at the store. Dates in massive clusters of 

 crimson and yellow were ripening to super-Arabian 

 excellence at the Government Experiment Station, 

 and ranchers' wives who had been "inside" to 

 escape the heat were drifting back to spend the 

 glorious winter of the desert in darning their men's 

 summer arrears of hose. 



We took our way leisurely up the valley, culling 

 here a lettuce, there cucumber or tomato, and every- 

 where the juiciest of the Coachella's alfalfa. It was 

 the last day of September when we reached Palm 

 Springs, which we had left at the beginning of June. 

 The four months of heat and dryness had left a 

 psychological drouth in my bones that I feared 

 might be permanent and drive me into regrettable 

 courses. Like Teufelsdrockh, "after so much roast- 

 ing I was what you might name calcined." However, 

 the desert itself had the remedy up its sleeve, and 

 produced it a few weeks later, when I found myself 

 flooded out of winter camp and subjected to a mon- 

 umental sousing that brought me within measurable 

 distance of drowning. 



A normal balance of constitution being thus re- 

 stored, I could review fairly the summer's experi- 

 ence. Unpleasant details, once in the rear, soon 

 became only amusing incidents in the general im- 

 pression: and these, after all, even while in prospect, 

 had made a part of the attraction. There remained 

 the satisfaction of having accomplished an old per- 

 sistent project; yet the satisfaction was not un- 

 qualified. I had wished to see the desert. Well, I had 



