There was little verdure save
cactus and, when the sun was fully up, Enoch began to realize that a
strenuous day was before him. The spring boasted a pepper tree, a
lovely thing of delicate foliage, gazing at itself in the mirrored blue
of the spring. Enoch allowed the horse to drink its fill, then he
unrolled the blankets and clothing and dropped them into the water
below the little falls that gushed over the rocks, anchoring them with
stones. After this, awkwardly, but recalling more and more clearly his
camping lore, he prepared a crude breakfast.
He sat long at this meal. His head felt a little light from the lack
of sleep and he was physically weary. But he could not rest. For days
a jingling couplet had been running through his mind:
"Rest is not quitting this busy career.
Rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere."
Enoch muttered this aloud, then smiled grimly to himself.
"That's the idea!" he added. "There's a bad spot somewhere in my
philosophy that'll break me yet. Well, we'll see if I can locate it."
The sun was climbing high and the shade of the pepper tree was
grateful. The spring murmured for a few feet beyond the last quivering
shadow of the feathery leaves, then was swallowed abruptly by the
burning sand.
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