110 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



say vain. In later days the gardens of the valley 

 improve, yet still the eye perceives lack of intimate 

 knowledge regarding flower habits and fancies, the 

 spots they love best and so forth. The pioneer 

 spirit yet lingers — that spirit which deems thought 

 and care for mere sweetness and light "not worth 

 while." 



I believe that we should have more winter bloom- 

 ing flowers if we did not cease watering with the 

 first frost. I have kept tender annuals blooming 

 all through the cold season, frosty nights and sunny 

 days, by packing barnyard soil around their roots 

 and supplying them with water. Violets, verbenas, 

 sweet alyssum and carnations, all in sheltered spots 

 of course, often do well, and I once had scarlet sage, 

 very scarlet, and ricinus stately and red, until after 

 tb^ New Year. 



Every Fall the numerous rose bushes in my gar- 

 den are banked with soil dug up in the horse and 

 cow corrals. One year Jesuscita insisted that Ri- 

 cardo must cut them all down to within two feet of 

 the ground. Aghast and trembling I looked on, 

 coming near to shouting Bloody Murder! But the 

 following Spring brought a glorious mass of color 

 to my door, each separate rose larger than ever be- 

 fore. So much for the Mexican method of horti- 

 culture. 



During my Tenderfoot days another, yet more 

 alarming event, confronted me. The garden was to 

 be irrigated, and when the brown waters rushed in 

 a flood through the break in the ditch and spread 

 madly over big and little indiscriminately, I ad- 



