Ishmael chose a spring, that broke out of the base of a rock some
forty or fifty feet in elevation, as a place well suited to the wants
of his herds. The water moistened a small swale that lay beneath the
spot, which yielded, in return for the fecund gift, a scanty growth of
grass. A solitary willow had taken root in the alluvion, and profiting
by its exclusive possession of the soil, the tree had sent up its stem
far above the crest of the adjacent rock, whose peaked summit had once
been shadowed by its branches. But its loveliness had gone with the
mysterious principle of life. As if in mockery of the meagre show of
verdure that the spot exhibited, it remained a noble and solemn
monument of former fertility. The larger, ragged, and fantastic
branches still obtruded themselves abroad, while the white and hoary
trunk stood naked and tempest-riven. Not a leaf, nor a sign of
vegetation, was to be seen about it. In all things it proclaimed the
frailty of existence, and the fulfilment of time.
Here Ishmael, after making the customary signal for the train to
approach, threw his vast frame upon the earth, and seemed to muse on
the deep responsibility of his present situation.
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