The oak tree rustled its leaves of green To the little stream below; "'Tis only a snowbank's tears, I ween, Could talk to a monarch so. But where are you going so fast, so fast, And what do you think to do? Is there anything in the world at last For a babbling brook like you?" "So fast, so fast,--why should I wait," The hurrying water said, "When yonder by the canon gate The farmer waits for bread?" Out on the rainless desert land My hurrying footsteps go; I kiss the earth, I kiss the sand, I make the harvest grow. "And many a farmer, when the sky Has turned to heated brass, And all the plain is hot and dry, Gives thanks to see me pass. By many a sluice and ditch and lane They lead me left and right, For it is I who turns the plain To gardens of delight." Then hurrying on, the dashing stream Into a river grew, And rock and mountain made a seam To let its torrent through; And where the burning desert lay, A happy river ran; A thousand miles it coursed its way, And blessed the homes of man. Vain was the oak tree's proud conceit, Dethroned the monarch lay; The brook that babbled at its feet Had washed its roots away. Still in the canon's heart there springs The desert's diadem, And shepherds bless the day that brings The snow-bank's tears to them. We crossed the river on a ferry-boat that was large enough to hold four wagons and some saddle-horses. The boat was run by a cable stretched taut up stream fifteen or twenty feet from the boat. A line from the bow and stern of the boat connected it with a single block which ran on the cable. When ready to start, the bow-line was hauled taut, the stern line slacked off to the proper angle, when, the current passing against the side of the boat, it was propelled across very rapidly. The river here was rapid, the water cold and deep, with a strong undercurrent.