A SURPRISE OF THE DESERT 49 
friends. The desert and I—alone. Not a hab- 
itation, not an inhabitant, not a wandering sheep 
nor the sign by track or visibility of any cattle 
herd, just a tawny desert from which at inter- 
vals grew black, stunted pines, things meant 
‘for the sky but which had not arrived at their 
destination nor could ever arrive. The desert 
kept rocks against its hot breast to bungle at 
making a little shadow. No touch of verdure 
anywhere. Russian thistles which had been 
green once were now dried into perpetual anger 
and sought to nip you like an angry cur. Just 
desert. And to the far off, yet friendly moun- 
tains, is there nothing at bloom? Why no, 
certainly not. There was nothing to bloom. 
How shall dead plants burst into flower? How 
shall the sterile desert bloom? “The wilder- 
ness and the solitary place—shall blossom” 
maybe, but not this “wilderness and _ solitary 
place.” So am I wanderer, glorious vagabond 
of the desert and with compass lost. All silent. 
Not a bird chirp, not a chipmunk’s cracked 
laughter, not a desert hawk flinging temporary 
shadow on the burning spaciousness. Just a 
desert and a man afoot—and very glad and with 
a heart at song, wild song, a lover of the ruth- 
less desert, a dreamer wandering where God had 
often wandered before. 
So I slouched along. Nothing hurried. De- 
laying, dallying, only dallying, enjoying, wander- 
ing heart-deep into leagues high of desert blue 
