62 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



the Arid Belt to be ruined by an overplus of water. 

 What irony of fate is this! A fate from which 

 some charitable soul might have saved him, provided 

 he had been willing to accept counsel. But charity 

 and real-estating seldom walk hand in hand; neith- 

 er is the newcomer to be consoled by the information 

 that it may be four, five or more years before to his 

 like catastrophe is repeated. He returns to his 

 own wet country, shaking the mud of the dry coun- 

 try from his feet. 



But in mid June the rainy season is still on the 

 horizon, and this particular Sunday is typically 

 warm and dry. As the day grows the cows seek 

 the shade of the sheds, the hens that of their brush 

 arbors, or else walk around with lifted wings and 

 open beaks like tentative dancers — but then hens 

 are absurd creatures anyhow. The roosters com- 

 port themselves in a more seemly manner. The 

 horses, with apparent inconsistency, are inclined to 

 seek the sunshine, for the reason that flies prefer 

 the shade. Hilda, the big St. Bernard — or Bravo, 

 the mongrel collie of dearer memory — extends her- 

 self in the yet damp acequia, and emerges there- 

 from a drab, queer, clipped being, unrecognizable 

 as one of high degree, or when Ricardo arrives sub- 

 mits unwillingly to cooling showers from buckets. 



And now by the tail wagging of all the dogs, the 

 Chihuahuas uttering their characteristic note of 

 welcome, and by the nickering of horses in corral 

 or pasture and the faint lowing of cows, Ricardo 

 has appeared upon the hitherto silent stage. Anon 

 he will bring my buggy, and I and the little dogs 



