It Is A Still Field, This Of My Neighbor's, Though So Busy,
And Admirably Compounded For Variety And Pleasantness,--A Little
Sand, A Little Loam, A Grassy Plot, A Stony Rise Or Two, A Full
Brown Stream, A Little Touch Of Humanness, A Footpath Trodden Out
By Moccasins.
Naboth expects to make town lots of it and his
fortune in one and the same day; but when
I take the trail to talk
with old Seyavi at the campoodie, it occurs to me that though the
field may serve a good turn in those days it will hardly be
happier. No, certainly not happier.
THE MESA TRAIL
The mesa trail begins in the campoodie at the corner of Naboth's
field, though one may drop into it from the wood road toward the
canon, or from any of the cattle paths that go up along the
streamside; a clean, pale, smooth-trodden way between spiny shrubs,
comfortably wide for a horse or an Indian. It begins, I say, at
the campoodie, and goes on toward the twilight hills and the
borders of Shoshone Land. It strikes diagonally across the foot of
the hill-slope from the field until it reaches the larkspur level,
and holds south along the front of Oppapago, having the high
ranges to the right and the foothills and the great Bitter Lake
below it on the left. The mesa holds very level here, cut across
at intervals by the deep washes of dwindling streams, and its
treeless spaces uncramp the soul.
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