OLD FAITHFUL 123 



I could give just a faint picture of the Morning 

 Glory Spring. Imagine a perfect morning glory, 

 just opened before the sun has struck it, still wet 

 with dew; imagine it magnified a thousand times 

 and then imagine a crystalline spring, boiling up 

 from its very heart, decorating the iridescent 

 walls of its chambered refuge with innumerable 

 diamonds, sparkling, flowing, retreating, changing 

 every instant, a spring down whose opaline depths 

 you can look and look and never see the bottom; 

 fancy diamonds, turquoises, sapphires and emer- 

 alds in a setting of the purest crystal, so that every 

 facet is replicated a hundredfold, and you may 

 then get some glimpse of that glorious fountain. 

 There is nothing like it in the world. Science 

 stands before it baffled. Art cannot reproduce 

 it, nor language describe it. You hang above it 

 dazzled, fascinated, hopeless of ever remembering 

 it. In shape and color it is a true morning glory, 

 but what flower ever had that vanishing, elusive 

 recrudescence. What flower could ever glow and 

 flame and fade and flame again as that spring does? 

 One might imagine a geyser, some one might 



