OVER THE BORDER 



ON my first morning at El Paso, where, by good 

 luck, as already explained, I arrived nine or ten 

 hours behind time, I made an early start for 

 Juarez, the Mexican city on the opposite bank of 

 the Rio Grande. As I waited for the car at the 

 corner of the street, a rosy house finch stood on 

 the top of a telegraph pole overhead, singing 

 ecstatically. The pretty creature, it is evident, is 

 very much at home in this bustling city, at least 

 in winter, for I was hardly in my room on the 

 afternoon of my arrival before I heard its warble, 

 and looking out of the window beheld the bird 

 perched upon the eaves of a building across the 

 way, where more than once since then I have 

 heard and seen it. I am sorry to add that the 

 English sparrow, its most unworthy rival, is here 

 also, though for the moment in small numbers. 



When the car came along, it proved to be an 

 open one. 



"A rather cold morning for open cars," I 

 said to the youthful conductor. 



"Oh, we run open cars all winter," he an- 

 swered. " But I suppose we don't mind the cold 



