FROM BEND TO BURNS 55 



per, a picket-pin — two — three of them — all new, 

 all children of the desert I A little shrike, a cluster 

 of squat golden-balled flowers, a patch of purple 

 things close to the sand giving a drop of color to 

 the stretch of gray, a slender striped chipmunk, 

 a small brown owl dangling between the sage- 

 clumps, and calling like a flicker, another at the 

 mouth of an old badger's den — the burrowing 

 owl, to be sure, and the first I have ever seen I 

 Whir-r-r-r-r — the great sage hen I and my hand 

 shot out again — this time at the steering-wheel. 

 The driver only grunted, and opened the throttle 

 a little wider if anything. He was not after sage 

 hens; he was on the road to Burns. 



If only he would blow out a tire! He did 

 break a rear axle later on in the afternoon, and to 

 my amazement and chagrin pulled a spare one 

 out of his toolbox, and had it on as if it were part 

 of the programme. But he gave me a chance to 

 start my first jack rabbit and send him careening 

 over the plain. I crept up on a Western night- 

 hawk, too ; I gathered the most glorious of 

 American primroses, white and as large as a 

 morning-glory, but an almost stemless flower like 

 most of the desert plants. I snatched and threw 



