A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



Late one afternoon Mrs. McNutt saw some cow- 

 boys ride in, and supposed that they were at the 

 bunkhouse. Curley disappeared soon after. She 

 saw him making for the bunkhouse, and thought he 

 was safe for the rest of the day, but did not know 

 then the boys had passed through and gone on some 

 special mission. It was in May. Copious rains had 

 fallen all spring; the growth of vegetation was 

 prolific everywhere, almost rank. No one who has 

 not seen a west Texas landscape, after a wet spring, 

 can form any idea of how the growth would obscure 

 a child walking in it. While it is not a part of my 

 story, I should like to add that no one who has not 

 seen it can conceive of the wonderful floral beauty 

 of the country. There are vast expanses of chrome- 

 yellow, clear to the horizon, variegated here and 

 there by acres of soft lavender, or brilliant purple, 

 looking in the great vista like a single vivid flower 

 of contrast pinned to a woman's dress. As one 

 studies more intimately the carpet of color at one's 

 feet, one sees a riot of white and yellow primroses 

 and daisies; the deep rich wine-tint of wild holly- 

 hock; the blue of larkspur and star daisy; and the 

 magenta of wild verbena. One is lost in the wonder 

 of nature's flower show, held way off in the wilds, 

 with God's love for its reward. I have never been 

 entirely in sympathy with the beautiful lines — 



Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



[2IO] 



