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A THEATER NEAR THE EDGE OF THE SAHARA
in the midst of a barbarous people, in a waterless and treeless land. Algeria is indeed treeless, for between the gardens near the coast and the palm-trees of the Saharan oases, trees are so rare that a group of twenty is called a "forest." We are, however, nearing the southern boundary of the high plateaux, so featureless, so uninviting, and from the window of a railway carriage out of which we have been peering eagerly, we are at last rewarded by a glimpse of another world. An opening in the mountain wall has come in view, the gates of the desert have opened before us. A paradoxical vista greets us; for though we are looking southward into the Saharan region, we behold a distant mass of freshest green, while behind us stretch away the desolate plains and valleys through which we have journeyed southward. This gorge is well named "The Gate of the Desert," for it gives access to a wonderland of sand and sun. Through it rush the
