36 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



The American resorts to what, on the whole, are 

 more practical measures. On the high lands and 

 mesas where rainfall is more assured than in the 

 valleys he takes to dry-farming, which is really only 

 intense cultivation, such as I was taught to practise 

 in the case of the young peach orchard mentioned 

 in an earlier chapter. Moreover in the high lands 

 gramma grass flourishes, and makes a better winter 

 feed for grazing stock. 



But on this rare June morning the Rio Grande is 

 conducting itself with decorum — or at least I pre- 

 fer to think it is as I step forth at nearly seven of 

 the clock. Breakfast is fizzling on the range, the 

 aroma of Java and Mocha floating through open 

 doors and windows. The flock of ebony hens, lately 

 released and heralded by a gay chanticleer, scarlet 

 combs glowing in the sunshine, are grazing in the 

 alfalfa, crooning their satisfaction. The cows in the 

 corral chew the cud of bovine ease. Up and down 

 the drive, round and round in the meadows, kicking 

 up her heels in the joy of living, races a blooded 

 colt, the hope of the ranchwoman to whom the plug 

 of the Far West is the abomination of desolation. 

 Meanwhile the mother tugs at her rope in all the 

 futility of maternal anxiety. 



Equally anxious, though from a different cause, 

 I stand at the kitchen door, shading my eyes from 

 the blinding radiance without. 



"Juan, have we got the water?" 



1 Si, Senora!" cheerfully. 



"Good ! Now hold on to it I" 



"Muy bien, Senora!" 



