56 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



about the last of June, or later, and trickles of mud- 

 dy water find their way through the flat roof and 

 splash upon the noses of workers enjoying well 

 earned slumbers. But abuse and violence can be 

 forever quelled by the simple expedient of planting 

 on the Mexican roof an American roof, and paint- 

 ing the same a rich crimson. Thus may one be simul- 

 taneously American and picturesque — a feat not to 

 be sneered at. 



None of our seasons come so much amiss to those 

 who seek the deepest Heart of Things, and live in 

 closest fellowship with Nature's moods and note her 

 changing face and listen for her faintest whisper, 

 but it is in winter that the healthseeker visits our 

 sunbathed land. Winter is our trump card, then? 

 Granted. But give me the early summer too, when 

 my brown house veils itself, day by day, in flowers 

 and greenery, sinking lower and lower into the arms 

 of cottonwood, locust and umbrella trees, and the 

 drone of bees and perpetual cooing of wild doves 

 wakes memories of far off lands; when the June 

 orchards thrust fruit all aglow into hands ready for 

 the gathering, and the mocking birds, noisy rascals, 

 shout night and day; and the ultramarine of the 

 sky takes on a paler, tenderer hue, into which azul 

 bath as the heat wave surges along the Valley the 

 mountains plunge their phantom spires, retiring 

 further and further into the land of dreams. Then 

 it is that, noontide drawing near, the olive mesa 

 decks itself transiently in ribbons of gold and black 

 as the summer clouds roll across high heaven — fore- 

 runners of a rainy season yet to come — leaving in 



