Point
and Mohave Point and Pima Point, and other points where the views are
supposed to be particularly good. To do this you get into a smart coach
drawn by horses and driven by a competent young man in a khaki uniform.
Leaving behind you a clutter of hotel buildings and station buildings,
bungalows and tents, you go winding away through a Government forest
reserve containing much fine standing timber and plenty more that is not
so fine, it being mainly stunted pinon and gnarly desert growths.

Presently the road, which is a fine, wide, macadamized road, skirts out
of the trees and threads along the canyon until it comes to a rocky
flange that juts far over. You climb out there and, instinctively
treading lightly on your tiptoes and breathing in syncopated breaths,
you steal across the ledge, going slowly and carefully until you pause
finally upon the very eyelashes of eternity and look down into that
great inverted muffin-mold of a canyon.

You are at the absolute jumping-off place. There is nothing between you
and the undertaker except six-thousand feet, more or less, of dazzling
Arizona climate. Below you, beyond you, stretching both ways from you,
lie those buried mountains, the eternal herds of the Lord's cattlefold;
there are scars upon their sides, like the marks of a mighty branding
iron, and in the distance, viewed through the vapor-waves of melting
snow, their sides seem to heave up and down like the flanks of panting
cattle. Half a mile under you, straight as a man can spit, are gardens
of willows and grasses and flowers, looking like tiny green patches, and
the tents of a camp looking like scattered playing cards; and there is a
plateau down there that appears to be as flat as your hand and is
seemingly no larger, but actually is of a size sufficient for the
evolutions of a brigade of cavalry.

[Illustration: THERE WAS NOT A TURKEY TROTTER IN THE BUNCH]

When you have had your fill of this the guide takes you and leads
you--you still stepping lightly to avoid starting anything--to a spot
from which he points out to you, riven into the face of a vast
perpendicular chasm above a cave like a monstrous door, a tremendous
and perfect figure seven--the house number of the Almighty Himself. By
this I mean no irreverence. If ever Jehovah chose an earthly
abiding-place, surely this place of awful, unutterable majesty would be
it. You move a few yards farther along and instantly the seven is
gone--the shift of sh