To one who has never studied the geography of Palestine or to whom books of travel are strangers, that first sight of the Jordan must bring far greater disappointment than to one in a way prepared for the dark, muddy stream whose swift current hurries on ceaselessly, gathering silt as it goes. Within its normal banks it is such a narrow stream! We stopped for a moment in the house where sweet Turkish coffee and oranges were served us and where the boats used by fishermen and by tourists who like to row across to touch the land of Moab lay moored to a tiny wharf. The banks were steep here and soft willows bent over them. We sat down in the little boat that swung lazily at its moorings. It seemed the strangest and the most wonderful of rivers, this little muddy stream! Over it the great hosts of Israel passed; along its banks John, coming out of the desert, preached the kingdom of heaven to the multitude; and here came even Jesus Himself to be baptized in the waters His presence made sacred. We dipped our bottles carefully into the stream and filled them with water as all pilgrims do. We listened to the stories of the feast days when pilgrims come down to the river to worship there; we read the story of Naaman and understood why the proud leper of the king’s court, even at the command of the stern prophet, hesitated to bathe in its waters. We lived in another day. Proud armies marched over the plain toward Jericho and we could almost hear Joshua’s ringing commands. We were brought back to our own day suddenly by the sound of a voice, a very American voice, singing in the distance, “Roll, Jordan, Roll.” We looked at each other in amazement. After a moment’s silence the voice rang out again, nearer now: “Some day I’m going to murder the bugler! Some day you’re going to find him dead! I’ll amputate his reveille And stamp upon it heavily, And spend the rest of my life in bed.” We climbed out of the boat and up the bank. A man in the early thirties stood there with a sapling, root and all, in his hand. He was an American working with the British under a commission for reforestation. He was most enthusiastic over his work and painted for us a wonderful picture of the hills, now bare and desolate, and the banks of the river, with the low scrubby growth, transformed some future day into valuable fruit and olive orchards, irrigated pastures, great stretches of light timberland. Jamil shook his head. “There is much talk these days about the changes that are coming to this land, but we shall see—we shall see and _then_ we shall believe,” he said. Our friend went into the little house for food and rest and we stood in silence watching the stream which artists for centuries have painted, the river which has always stood for separation, under whose spell poets have written their sad hymns—watched it rushing on pouring more and more water into the Sea that is _Dead_.