THE DESERT AND THE ROSE ' 53 



"Why did you not call me, Sefiora?" Then be- 

 thinking himself he shrugged his shoulders and 

 spread his hands. "The Sefiora did well not to 

 wait," he conceded. 



Thus at last I am as free from ranching agita- 

 tions as the little dogs reclining in the garden — re- 

 clining, but not "relaxed" according to modern 

 instructions. It is worthy of observation that they 

 have disposed their small persons at a discreet dis- 

 tance from a lilac bush already pre-empted by but- 

 cher-birds for purposes of their own. Not only 

 are they butchers but warriors of the most aggress- 

 ive type, and should any dog, large or small, stroll 

 carelessly within six feet of their nest, out they 

 dash, and in the parlance of the country give that 

 dog fits. Howls and groans, deep or shrill, proclaim 

 that a sharp bill has penetrated some canine back. 

 Beautiful and bloodthirsty, these winged monsters 

 leave a trail of death all through the orchards, in 

 the shape of insects impaled on twigs and left there 

 to die. Murder, bloody murder, is the slogan of 

 the butcher-bird. A canary hung outdoors in its 

 cage is doomed. By some unknown means the gay 

 plumaged terror entices the canary close to the 

 bars, and then off goes its head. But as I do not 

 keep canaries I am spared one form of worry. 



Scarcely had I got myself into a clean frock than 

 Mrs. X. called by to engage a pint of Jersey cream 

 for her bridge party the following afternoon, and 

 incidentally to tell me of a night spent in a house of 

 mourning. She is now on her way home, and con- 

 cludes her recital by saying that she intends to take 



