File:The Jordan valley and Petra (1905) (14592422750).jpg

Identifier: jordanvalleype02libb (find matches)
Title: The Jordan valley and Petra
Year: 1905 (1900s)
Authors: Libbey, William, 1855- Hoskins, Franklin Evans, joint author
Subjects:
Publisher: New York London, G. P. Putnam's sons
Contributing Library: Princeton Theological Seminary Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Princeton Theological Seminary Library

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ear-ing it until it was roasted as brown and as juicyas any game ought to be ! His fingers and teethfinished the process, and in a short time there wasnot an atom of it to be seen ! When we returned to camp we found the lambslaughtered, the oven in the midst of the flames,the bread on the way to baking, and everybody ina famous eood humor. Towards nio-ht the mulesand horses were all taken into a huge rock dwellingtwo hundred yards away, and after tightening ourtent ropes, and ditching round the camp, we laydown to sleep in Petra, careless of the beatingrains which kept up for nearly half the night. The next morning the bed of the Wady Musa, infront of our tents, which had been dry the day be-fore, was occupied by a fine stream of pure water,eight or ten feet wide, and several inches deep.By noon, however, the elastic little stream, whichdoubtless shortens or lengthens with each shower,had slackened in its flow and disappeared entirelyamong the rocks, swallowed by the thirsty soil. See
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> ►J < 0 X U3 w T3 2 d w oS O CO < o Into Petra 113 photograph, page 95, Last of the water. In an-other twenty-four hours we had to walk a coupleof hundred yards up the bed of the stream for ourwater supply. The pure water from the sand-stone, which was filtered and aerated by nature,was pleasant to drink, after our experiences withthe hard, limestone water, often badly polluted,which we had been forced to use up to this pointon our trip. VOL. II 8. PETRA It seems no work of mans creative hand, By labor wrought as wavering fancy planned ; But from the rock as if by magic grown, Eternal, silent, beautiful, alone ! Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine Where erst Athena held her rites divine ; Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane That crowns the hill and consecrates the plane ; But rosy-red as if the blush of dawn That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn ; The hues of youth upon a brow of woe, Which man deemed old two thousand years ago. Match me such marvel

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