A Phenomenon in Old Mexico

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A PHENOMENON IN OLD MEXICO. BY CHARLES E. MCCLELLAN, INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN THE JUAREZ STAKE ACADEMY.

To him who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language. Bryant.

Not only does she speak in various languages, as the poet says, but she also manifests moods as humorsome as a child's. Her freaks are past conjecture. Sometimes her pranks are played by boisterous, wicked winds: sometimes it is the vivid flash of light- ning that reveals her temper, which mocks at terror and death. Again the carrying out of her caprices is entrusted to that ingenu- ous destroyer the Storm King. It was the sport of the latter that recently interested me. Imagine yourself, at the close of the rainy season, on the summit of one of the jagged peaks in the roughest part of the Sierra Madre Mountains. A thunderstorm is imminent, and you dis- mount, pass your arm through the reins of your horse's bridle, and seek the friendly shelter of a branching evergreen. The whole heaven is black with threatening clouds, that seem blackest and lowest just above your head. Jagged lightning, crashing thunderbolts, and deep rolling thunder, shake earth and air, and deepen the feeling of awe which has crept over you in this awful, majestic solitude. Your knees tremble beneath you, and you lean against your faithful horse for support. As a few scattering drops strike warningly near you, an ap- prehensive glance upward discovers a strange commotion in the already restless clouds. They are no longer merely drifting to- ward each other, but have met in a fierce aerial maelstrom. Like gigantic monsters braving each other, they circle round and round,

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ever and anon darting out piercing shafts of lightning, followed by resounding roars of thunder. In silent awe you stare at the warring elements. Suddenly a lighter patch of clouds pendant below the heavier mass begins to turn with a rapid whirling motion that spins it out to a point, like an elongated funnel: point downward it shoots toward the earth, drawing into its vortex the huge cloud which seems trying all at once to empty itself upon the earth through this strange channel.

[ Photo by George Albert Smith]

THE NEW BRIDGE OVER THE PIEDRAS VERDES RIVER, IN COLONIA JUAREZ, MEXICO. The River passes through the city which is built in the narrow valley on both of its banks. The bridge, opened December 4, 1907, was built by the colony at a cost of $10,000, and is a great convenience to the people who, before its erection, were frequently greatly annoyed by the sudden and often tre- mendous floods that commonly sweep down the river after rain storms.

And now this gyrating monster has struck the mountain top, a huge black pillar from earth to heaven, not straight, but bend- ing as if the strain it bore were breaking it, almost; not steady, but shifting and writhing as if from intense pain. Breathless you gaze at the sight, so terrible, yet so fascinating. And now you are aware of a tumultous noise — a combination of roaring winds and rushing waters; of grinding boulders and creaking trees.

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As you listen and gaze, this gigantic water spout, which for just a moment has been boring viciously at the mountain side, lifts itself in air and dances off across the canyon, with a movement so rapid and irregular as to defy all description. Now it strikes the opposite hillside, tears at it for a moment, then springs again into the air. But this time for not more than a hundred feet, when it plunges downward again and works havoc with trees, rocks and earth. Everything yields to its force. Huge trees are twisted and uprooted as if they were dwarf bushes. From spot to spot the demon water spout bounds; now its leaps carry it a quarter of a mile, and again it covers but fifty feet. And now you start with terror as the mad thing suddenly changes its course and rushes toward you. In a moment it will be upon you and —but while you gaze fearfully about for some possible protection, it veers again and strikes the hillside not more than two hundred yards away. Your apprehension for its next move, the roar of the thunder, and the near intermittent play of lightning almost completely un- nerve you. Through the falling rain you dimly see a black whirling tor- rent pouring from the cloud, and a rushing, muddy one leaping into the gorge below. Another leap and the erratic water spout shoots high in air, rolls above the mountain top and descends on the other side to

renew its work of havoc there. For another thirty minutes it bounds like a crazy thing from place to place, but always in a zig-zag fashion. Now it turns back and threatens to destroy you, but tacks again and you are safe. Near half a hundred times it leaves plainly its foot-prints upon the mountain side, and all within a radius of two miles square. Tired of its sport, the thing grows smaller and weaker, and at last re- treats to regions of upper air. Although the clouds are now lighter overhead, the rain is still falling gently, and the roar of waters is distinctly heard in the canyons below. The roll of thunder is gentler now and the storm fiend has grown calmer. Breathing a prayer of gratitude, you mount your horse and ride slowly toward the nearest spot where the water spout had

struck. When you reach the place the awe that had filled you is

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increased rather than diminished. The terrific force that had been expended, and the amount of water that had fallen, were almost in- conceivable. A hole twenty or thirty feet across had been bored into the earth to a depth of ten or twelve feet. Pine and oak trees had been uprooted and borne away as if they had been but straws. Boulders and blocks of stone weighing many tons had been quarried from the mountain side and tumbled far below. Twelve inches above the huge depression which was almost round, the grass and leaves were as undisturbed as if only a spring shower had fallen upon them. But the lower side showed signs of ter- rible havoc wrought by the fierce torrent. At each place you visited, it was practically the same.

On the lower side, deep gullies had been cut, huge trees had been not only torn up, but had actually been broken in two as if

they had been splinters. Ravines had been swept as free from the thick oak brush that an hour before had lined the banks, as you can imagine, not a single bush remaining. And, incredible as it may seem on a hill-

side sloping at an angle of perhaps. thirty-five degrees, the torrent had rushed down in such volumes as to fill the ravine to a depth

[Photo by George Albert Smith!

THE JUAREZ BRIDGE, MEXICO. Anthony W. Ivina, and Mexican officials of Casas Grandes, on the day of opening, Dec. 4, 1907.