Ancient Giants 137 



deeply buried in the flinty rocks of the badlands 

 of the Eed Deer river. 



Like all noble scenes of nature the mind can- 

 not at once grasp them fully, if it ever does. 



The south wind had sprung up, the tide was 

 rising, the waves were curling as they rolled on 

 the beach: higher and higher they came capped 

 with white foam. As far as the eyes could reach, 

 long lines of breakers heaped tons of water on 

 the shore, lashed by the frowning tempest. The 

 sublimity of the scene was heightened by the col- 

 ors in the west, that flecked the horizon with bars 

 of gold and crimson; while the sun, a globe of 

 fire, sank to rest in old ocean. I was lying be- 

 neath the tree breathing the salted air, partly 

 in a trance. Is this real? I asked myself. Is the 

 wind really sighing among the branches of the 

 trees, that sheltered me? sounding like music of 

 an aeolian harp, the tracery of interwoven 

 leaflets acting as if they were stretched invisible 

 wires? Is this a dream or reality? How often 

 in other days while searching the semi-arid fos- 

 sil beds of the west, in my day dreams have I 

 put life in the old dry bones; how often some 

 stately dinosaur has passed before my mental 

 vision. The forests, the rivers, the lakes and 

 oceans of other days, have appeared as if they 

 actually existed. Is it incredible then, that I 

 should be transported across three millon years, 

 the distance between the living and the dead? 

 "How fleet is a glance of the mind ; compared to 



