32 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



sits a vandyke brown child, the crimson of whose 

 garment repeats the tints of the flowers behind her. 

 The child runs out to embrace Cortes, who loathes 

 Mexicans, particularly the young of the race — a 

 loathing inherited from the ages, no doubt — so 

 shows his gleaming teeth balef ully, and she retreats. 

 A kodak is brought forth, but what is a mere kodak 

 confronted with such a scene as this? And while 

 we hesitate a smiling and portly Senora steps forth. 

 Her in our best Mexican we salute, requesting per- 

 mission to take a picture of her lovely patio and 

 equally lovely muchachita. With alacrity she con- 

 sents, re-arranges the child to less advantage, dives 

 into the recesses of her dwelling, from whence she 

 emerges with more flowers, but when asked to pose 

 in the picture, genially but definitely declines. Soon 

 we part, with mutual smiles and bows. 



On we drive, leaving the distinctly Mexican quar- 

 ter but feeling more and more as if we were rolling 

 through the gardens of a Sleeping Beauty. For 

 the streets have become shadowy lanes, embowered 

 in such a wealth of greenery as causes the stranger 

 to rub his eyes and murmur : Is this indeed the Arid 

 Belt ? Giant china trees shower perfume from their 

 violet sprays, their dense shade illumined by the 

 lighter and more dancing shadows of cottonwood 

 and locust. On either side, screened by high hedges 

 of osage orange, vine-covered trellises and balconies 

 and orchards, we catch glimpses of the palaces 

 themselves, some in partial decay yet glowing 

 warmly brown or silvery white through their veils 

 of green. Upon them poetic fancy had something 



