THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 37 



And the bare brown legs, big sombrero and clum- 

 sy hoe disappear among the peach trees. If there 

 is any more entrancing sound than the hissing of 

 water into cracked and thirsty land, a more refresh- 

 ing sight than that of the murky torrent spreading 

 cool fingers over the face of heated meadow and 

 orchard, the ranchwoman is not acquainted with 

 either. 



And beautiful indeed upon the mountains as the 

 feet of those bringing glad tidings is early morn in 

 New Mexico. Each day is a new birth, a new 

 heaven and a new earth. When dawn steals along 

 the Valley and morning leaps in glory on the por- 

 phyry peaks, the heart leaps with it; for the new 

 day is ours — not to do with it what we will, perhaps, 

 but to do with it the best we can. The night may 

 have been one of dread and watching and the hours 

 to come burdened with tasks, but never can those 

 tasks become sordid to the nature lover. The "glory 

 of the dream" is reborn, day after day, even though 

 it be sullied in an hour. . . . 



There are some arts of which a man becomes 

 master in the course of three hundred years or so. 

 Levelling land is one, irrigation is another. In both 

 these arts the Mexican is at his best. Not that the 

 progressive American fails to get ahead of him at 

 times, even in his own game, but the progressive 

 farmer is not yet as plentiful in our Valley as the 

 eastern blackberry upon the wayside bush; there- 

 fore the Mexican, with his big hoe and inherited 

 lore, continues to be a valuable person. 



