A Day in New Mexico. 147 



long rows of freight-cars, croaking dismally, and, 

 by their presence, adding no charm to the land- 

 scape, as do the merry, noisy, cunning crows at 

 home. Of the two birds, I prefer the latter. The 

 raven may figure better in poetry, and its name 

 sound less harshly upon the ear; but for the 

 pleasant purpose of recalling days gone by, or as 

 an object of study, give me the crow. If the 

 ravens at Deming are fair representatives of their 

 race, then the crow is, I believe, a brainier bird. 



Strolling about the plain, one other bird at- 

 tracted my attention continually, and made the 

 place less dreary. It was the black-throated spar- 

 row. Although the voice was harsh and dry, 

 fitting the arid surroundings, there was an as- 

 surance in its lame attempts at song that the 

 world here was not utterly desolate. I listened 

 hour after hour to these cheerful birds, fancying 

 there was melody in their attempts at song, and 

 wondering why, when their lines had been cast in 

 such forbidding places, the gift of a sweet voice had 

 not been vouchsafed them. Does the extremely 

 dry atmosphere have to do with it ? Not a sound 

 that I heard had that fulness of tone common to 



