The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1892-12-01
THE WHITE DEATH.
SOMETHING ABOUT THE SHIFTING SAM
HILLS OF THE COAST.

SOMETHING ABOUT THE SHIFTING SAND
HILLS OF THE COAST.
Harpers Magazine: The White
Death is naked, cleaning, shifting
food Of sand, moving over inland from
the ocean shore, inch by inch, foot by
foot. in huge white waves Of glisten-
ing grit, inexorable as fate. silent as
the grave. swallowing and destroying
everything that lies before it in Its
way The wind blows the shifting
surface up the crest of each towering
wave and over the edge in a spark
ling mist. Beyond the crest the dry,
mist falls, and still the wave moves
steadily, resistlessl y forward, envelop-
ing ali things III a universal white.
Standing at the edge of a marshy fiat
the eye looks far away across the level
Of coarse sedge grass to the white line
of the sand hills and the black line OF
pinewooks in the distance. Here and
there the fiat is lush and green, where
shallow lakes, blooming with white
lilies and blue arrow heads, battle the
arid soil; here and there it IS burned
yellow and brown, where the hot,
smooth sand stretching IN from the
ocean shore, drinks up the water and
life. and leaves all dead. That level
fiat. reaching far away into the dis
lance, Is like plane of life one has
to travel the black streak Of a gloomy
pine woods is the valley of shadows,
and the white waving line Of sand is
a likeness Of death. and as in real life
neither death nor its shadow looks
sinister seen from such distance. TO
travel across the level flat is a mimic
image of the journey of life. The
lakes, so pretty IN the distance, are
muddy, and smell rank and dank to
the nostrils; they are full of tadpoles
and lizards and crawling things. Here
and there little deserts of arid sand
are passed; they burn the soles of the
feet, aud scorch the face with a reflect
ed glare, and mosquitoes rise III clouds,
like petty troubles, to bite and sting.
Nv AIT about five minutes and say
There are quicksands under the feet
where the grass looks the freshest and
the greenest, and hiding the dead
levels Of sand a mirage covers the
desolation with a soulless sheet Of
visionary water First come the hot
black shadows the shadows of the
pines and then the foot hills. as it
were, Of death. Allis breathless silence
except for the shrieking Of the fish
hawk high in the air and the strange,
mysterious whispering of the cease
less moving and shifting sand. Here
and there a stark gray tree trunk, al
ready dead in the clutch Of the on
coming death, reaches helpless skele
ton arms up into the air Each IS an
empty hollow shell Of bark; each is
soulless and void of life, excepting
perhaps for a nest of woodpeckers or
of mica squall metempsychosis of
the spirit Of the pine tree. Beyond
the foot hills lies grim and still the
silent bosom of the white death hills
and valleys of lifeless sand, binding,
burning, parching and dry. The air
is like fiery furnace. and the breath
less curtain of silence stretches be
tween the glare Of the sky above and
whispering whiteness below. The slid
ing feet sink deep into the shifting sur
face, and the traveller stands face to
face with Israfael in smile SO the
Gates of death are passed, and the
journey is ended. Then suddenly, as
the head rises above the crest Of the
last white wave, all is instantly trans
formed. The last hill is climbed with
painting breath and then death itself
IS left behind. Before the eye there
stretches away the eternal ocean, a
glorious purple. sparkling with dane
ing whitecaps and dotted with shin
ing sails. The ceaseless surf shouts
jubilantly on the beach, and the cool,
pure air rushes upward, bathing the
hot facelike the breath OF newer and
purer life. The ocean, the sails and
the rushing breeze-all tell Of some
thing vast and limitless that lies be-
yond Behind was left the limited
plain. bounded by the black shadows
and the white death. Before is an
image of limitless immensely.