64 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



breathes to the few who lift their eyes unto the 

 hills. Deep, rich, subdued are the hues of her early 

 night, from the brown of the acequia whispering 

 beneath the olive of tall weeds and rustling cane 

 and arching trees, to the profound yet pellucid ul- 

 tramarine of the mountains and the mystic sweep 

 of heaven. . . . 



Homewardbound my unshod pony steals rhyth- 

 mically up the drive, through a dusk heavy with the 

 fragrance of china trees and blossoming meadows. 

 The embowered house sits dumb, solitary and un- 

 welcoming — not physically empty but heart and 

 soul empty. By day it and the surrounding ranch 

 may have rung to the shouts of happy boys, but now 

 a sense of loneliness unspeakable, indescribable — 

 nay, of abandonment — hovers around my brown 

 mansion. I divest my pony of saddle and bridle and 

 open for her the pasture gate. In an instant she 

 and her constant companion are nickering on each 

 others' necks, while I. still with that strange sense 

 of homelessness, walk slowly to my home. The 

 screen door of the illuminated kitchen flies wide, 

 and with weird strains of rapture, neither howls 

 nor whines, two white specks flash toward me 

 through the dusk. 



Who said there was no welcome for me? Nay, 

 forsooth, it is a royal welcome! 



Rising in the night watches, slumber hard to be 

 entreated, I look forth on the chanceful and now 

 moonlit spaces overswept bv wide winded shadows, 

 stealthv visitants from the Great Unknown. Silence 

 reigns but for the rarely hushed sigh and murmur 



