CHAPTER III 

 THE RISE OF THE YEAR 



In New Mexico early in February the alfalfa 

 is greening here and there, and is not quite so crack- 

 ly under the feet. But it is still too crackly for 

 Cortes. The pads of Chihuahua dogs are tender, 

 and like the wise little old man he is he takes a seat 

 on the edge of the irrigating ditch and watches me 

 wistfully on my passage up the ranch. Jealousy 

 also agitates his snowy shirt bosom because lazy 

 Betsinda, ever on the lookout for indulgences, has 

 approached me in her most engaging manner, with 

 the result that I am carrying her. That Cortes con- 

 siders such a performance absolutely despicable 

 makes no difference in his feelings; or that never 

 does he consent to being borne aloft unless when 

 crossing a crowded street, and even at that he sighs 

 woefully. Betsinda's manners are admired of all 

 beholders, and it is she who attends to the social end 

 of their existence — coquettishly, and assisted by 

 the lavish use of large melting orbs, and always 

 with that air of nerves-on-the-jump characteristic 

 of the truebred Chihuahua. 



Despite a mitigating quality or two February can 

 scarcely be called a softening month; in fact the 

 Oldest Inhabitant believes it to be the most unplea- 

 sant month of the New Mexican year. For the rheu- 

 matically inclined it surely is. A chill damp breeze 



