--Henry Habland: _My Friend Prospero_ ("McClure's").
_We round a corner of the valley, and beyond, far below us, looms the town
of Sorata. From this distance_ the red tile roofs, the soft blue, green,
and yellow of its stuccoed walls, look indescribably fresh and grateful. A
closer inspection will probably dissipate this impression; it will be
squalid and dirty, the river-stone paving of its street will be deep in
the accumulation of filth, dirty Indian children will swarm in them with
mangy dogs and bedraggled ducks, the gay frescoes of its walls will peel
in ragged patches, revealing the 'dobe of their base, and the tile roofs
will be cracked and broken. But from the heights at this distance and in
the warm glow of the afternoon sun it looks like a dainty fairy village
glistening in a magic splendor against the Titanic setting of the Andes.
--Charles Johnson Post: _Across the Highlands of the World_
("Harper's").
Come on, sir; here's the place. Stand still. How fearful
And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows and choughs that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down
Hangs one that gathers sampire, dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.
The fishermen that walk upon the beach
Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark
Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge
That on the unnumber'd idle pebble chafes,
Cannot be heard so high.
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