FIRST DAYS IN TUCSON 



WHAT is more fickle than New England weather ? 

 Nothing, perhaps, or nothing inanimate, unless 

 it be the weather of some Southern winter re- 

 sort, say in Florida or Arizona. 



I reached Tucson in the evening of January 

 31, a stop at El Paso having saved me from 

 participation in a railroad accident, as a result 

 of which many passengers (nobody knows how 

 many) were burned to death. The first of Feb- 

 ruary was bright and warm ; so that in a long 

 forenoon jaunt over the desert a very light over- 

 coat quickly became burdensome. The next 

 morning, therefore, it was left at home. 



My course this time was into the valley of the 

 Santa Cruz, where farmers live by irrigation and 

 barley fields are already green. I had crossed 

 the river, pausing on the bridge to enjoy the 

 sight of my first black phoebe, a handsome, 

 highly presentable fellow with a jet-black waist- 

 coat, when all at once the dusty road before 

 me was seen to be fast becoming inundated. Be- 

 side the fence, wading in mud and water, the 

 owner of the fields, having taken up arms a 



