216 TEXAS AND ARIZONA 



all my letters with it, and still leave a world of 

 things unsaid. Its fluctuations are so constant 

 that they tend to become monotonous ; as Thoreau 

 said of one of his Concord days, that it was so 

 wet you might almost call it dry. 



Three or four mornings ago, for example, I 

 started early for a seven-mile tramp across the 

 desert. I wore overcoat and woolen gloves, and 

 needed them. It was so cool, indeed, that I left 

 word for an extra garment to be put into the 

 carriage that was to come out and fetch me back 

 at noon. 



That same afternoon I walked down iuto the 

 valley of the Santa Cruz. The sun was blazing, 

 and the heat intense. The few cottonwood trees 

 scattered along the road were stiU leafless (I had 

 left my umbrella at home — for the last time) and 

 the only shelter to be found was on the north- 

 easterly side of the telegraph poles. I believe 

 I never before complained of such obstructions 

 that they were not big enough ; but every- 

 thing comes round in its turn. My thoughts ran 

 back to the time when a boy of my acquaintance 

 used to trudge homeward from berry-picking ex- 

 cursions on burning July noons. Also I thought 

 of that comfortable Hebrew text about the 

 " shadow of a great rock in a weary land." The 

 man who wrote that might have lived iu Arizona. 



