They became, in turn, cones, pyramids, boxes, benches, chimney stacks, hourglasses.
Sometimes they soared high in air, like the kites of a baby god; and, beneath, the unbroken desert stretched afar, wavering, misty, and dim.
Again, on clear, still days, these hills showed crystalline, thin, icy, cameo-sharp; beyond, between, faint golden splotches of broad Sonoran plain faded away to nothingness; and, far beyond that nothingness, hazy Sonoran peaks of dimmest blue rose from illimitable immensities, like topmasts of a very large ship on a very small globe; and the earth was really round, as alleged.
It was fitting and proper that the desert, as a whole, had no name: the spinning earth itself has none.

Inconsiderable nooks and corners were named, indeed--Crow Flat, the Temporal, Moonshine, the Rinconada.

It should rather be said, perhaps, that the desert had no accepted name.
Alma Mater, Lungs called it.

But no one minded Lungs.
Mr.Stanley Mitchell woke early in the Blue Bedroom to see the morning made.

He threw back the tarpaulin and sat up, yawning; with every line of his face crinkled up, ready to laugh for gladness.
The morning was shaping up well.