THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 67 



The shiftless type of peon, crawling along a road 

 on some bitter, brilliant winter morning, crouched 

 on the seat of his ramshackle wagon behind a team 

 of dejected ponies, a blanket pulled over head and 

 shoulders, the point where his nose might presum- 

 ably exist buried in his knees, came in well as a 

 figure for a middle distance. If not in his wagon 

 or on his horse he might — nay may — be observed 

 squatting by the dozen in winter against a sun 

 warmed wall — "the Mexican fireplace" — smoking 

 the perennial cigarette, gambling possibly at monte 

 or chusas, or better still, simply chattering, and us- 

 ually about nothing whatever ; for it is a garrulous 

 race even when hardworking. But the Mexican is 

 seldom a hobo or a beggar, and is not addicted to 

 tramping the country without an object. When he 

 walks, he walks rapidly. He does not stroll. But 

 then neither does he walk if he can get out of it, 

 thus resembling all Southern races as I have known 

 them. Yet watch a gang of Mexicans going to or 

 from work in some city; their gait approaches the 

 dogtrot of the pure Indian. 



The peon is also akin to the negro in one respect, 

 if not more: the life of the ranchwoman is largely 

 consumed in gathering up his leavings ; yet if a long 

 apprenticeship has been served with the happy-go- 

 lucky darkey, the inevitable is submitted to with 

 reasonable philosophy. Everything, in short, on the 

 ranch is just where it ought not to be and never 

 where it should be. Work presses, and some indis- 

 pensable article is missing. "Where is it?" "Quien 

 sabel" accompanied by a shrug which is the soul 



