THE MESA TRAIL 



is the spring smell of sage that is the 

 warning that sap is beginning to work in 

 a soil that looks to have none of the juices 

 of life in it ; it is the sort of smell that 

 sets one thinking what a long furrow the 

 plough would turn up here, the sort of 

 smell that is the beginning of new leafage, 

 is best at the plant's best, and leaves a pun- 

 gent trail where wild cattle crop. There is 

 the smell of sage at sundown, burning sage 

 from campoodies and sheep camps, that 

 travels on the thin blue wraiths of smoke; 

 the kind of smell that gets into the hair 

 and garments, is not much liked except 

 upon long acquaintance, and every Paiute 

 and shepherd smells of it indubitably. 

 There is the palpable smell of the bitter 

 dust that comes up from the alkali flats at 

 the end of the dry seasons, and the smell 

 of rain from the wide-mouthed cafions. 

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