A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 



A STUDENT of nature, differing from some less 

 fortunate folk that one meets at wintering places, 

 is never at a loss what to do with his day. In a 

 strange land, at least (the stranger the better), 

 he possesses one of the prime requisites of a con- 

 tented life : he knows every night what is on his 

 docket for the morrow. His days, so to express 

 it, are all dovetailed together. Tuesday's work 

 is to finish Monday's ; Wednesday's is to finish 

 Tuesday's ; and so the weeks run by. What could 

 be simpler, or more conducive to cheerfulness? 

 A day should have a motive, as well as a piece 

 of music or a poem. 



I am still at Tucson. Two mornings ago there 

 was but one thing for me to do. I knew it before 

 I rose. I must take the half -past seven horse-car, 

 ride down town as far as Simpson Street, walk 

 thence across the Santa Cruz Valley to the base 

 of Tucson Mountain, and from there follow the 

 narrow road that winds between the foot of the 

 cliffs and the old canal, till I came to a certain 

 bush. The name of this bush I cannot give, not 

 knowing it, but it bears millions of small, fleshy 



