128 OBSERVATIONS OF A RANCHWOMAN 



One beyond the other they lie spread, a 

 carpet of varied greens, brightening into the 

 dazzling shimmer of ripe wheat or pale bands 

 of barley, or oftener yet deepening to the 

 deep purple of alfalfa ready for the cutting. 

 On the ear strikes only the wailing, not 

 unmusical cry of the Mexican, urging his 

 weary flock to the trampling of the gathered 

 sheaves. The eye wanders on and on to 

 the river's bank, marked by wavering lines 

 of woods, on and up to where the still and 

 solemn mesa leans upon the deep-burned sky. 



' How beautiful, but how sad !' exclaims 

 the new-comer softly. 



Or it is November, and the brilliant blue 

 and golden day hushes itself beneath a dome 

 the tint of a sparrow's egg, gilt-edged where 

 the sun has sunk. A gray hand steals over 

 the valley ; the very cottonwoods cease to 

 blaze, and pale from gold to amber. It is 

 night, we say ; the bright day is over. And 

 then, suddenly, the mountains flash rose-hued 

 upon the sight. This is their crowning hour 

 of glory. Battlement after battlement, peak 

 after peak, catches the unearthly radiance. 

 From the veiled and silent valley we watch 



