THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 63 



will bury ourselves in the recesses of its top and 

 hie us to dine with friendly neighbors. 



Sometimes, for weeks at a time, it chances that 

 the days only can be spent at the ranch, and in win- 

 ter at set of sun we betake ourselves for the night 

 to our healthseekers' ranch resort, as sure of our 

 welcome as anyone can be who passes much of a 

 limited leisure with invalids and their relatives far 

 from home and friends. 



When in summer it is deemed desirable that I 

 should thus abandon my adobe home, we prefer — 

 at least I do — to first meander in the twilight adown 

 the Valley road, over which hangs close and low 

 a cloud of dust not there by day, to right and left 

 of which smile superior green meadows and patches 

 of corn, further yet the dark mesa sharply outlined 

 upon the coppery west, and in the east the solemn 

 violet peaks of evening. Self contained and re- 

 mote, Nature watches us groping along our blinded 

 course. 



But at the end of the road there are lights and the 

 patter of young feet hurrying to meet us, and a 

 scramble to climb in where we all are, and boy 

 voices — and we are no more alone. 



Best of all does it seem, when possible, to remain 

 beneath one's own roof tree, to partake of a primi- 

 tive supper of bread and milk, and then mount and 

 ride away into a world all one's own, into which no 

 man, or woman either, ever enters. Here all is 

 still, silent, mysterious with the mystery of the 

 Great South West. Nature stands aloof as always, 

 but now with her finger on her lip. "Hush!" she 



