i 9 4 THE STORY OF A BIRD LOVER 



leading far out into the desert toward the river 

 some fifteen miles away. One may picture Cabe9a 

 de Vaca looking down from some distant hill at 

 eventide on the huge habitations, standing in a 

 cultivated plain, irrigated by water brought in the 

 great ditch from the distant river. As the rays 

 of the declining sun struck on the flat roofs and 

 walls of the city, painting them all with gold, it 

 needed no sublime faith to credit the marvellous 

 tales of his guides, El Dorado, the land of gold, 

 stretched away at his feet 



The day's journey terminated at Florence, 

 the first Mexican, or semi-Mexican town I had 

 seen. A straggling collection of one-story adobe 

 houses, some of them residences, others stores, and 

 again, on the outskirts, apparently cattle or agri- 

 cultural ranches, the whole brown and dusty, and 

 pervaded with that peculiar, indescribable, subtle, 

 sweet aroma of alkali. 



An irrigation system, depending on the river 

 which ran hard by, afforded not only means for 

 growing many shade trees, but in places at- 

 tempts were made to secure a growth of grass. 

 Along the river itself rose cottonwoods and other 

 trees of considerable dimensions, with an under- 

 growth of bushes of various kinds, not unlike 

 what one sees in any similar location in the 

 East. 



The birds, however, were all different. Every 



