CHAPTER VIII 

 CONCLUSION 



Finis cannot be written to any story which deals with the 

 desert; for the desert call is a charm, it will etch away the 

 heart of you until it brings you back; back to the long trek 

 across burning arid wastes where you wondered first how 

 any living thing could exist and where you found life and 

 beauty and music, back to the giant amphitheater of the desert 

 where the moonbeams flit about at night among the weird 

 Fantastic Clan and the sun boils everything up by day, defy- 

 ing you then to tarry long. But you take the dare and come 

 again if you can, and yet again, wending your way farther 

 each time across the foothills and mountains, ever in search 

 of that evanescent something called the desert-spell or the 

 thing that calls you back. 



In our domestic lives we work hard for the few little 

 things we have ; many homes are devoid of the animation and 

 color and the thrill of flower creations; for to have the 

 beauty of plants and blossoms is to work for them and then 

 to keep them, by dint of much effort and labor of love. But 

 how different it Is on the desert! There the flowers just 

 grow and blossom and keep on blooming without care or cul- 

 tivation from the hand of man. It seems never to rain in 

 that great natural amphitheater of the sun, but the plants 

 Nature has placed there, so carelessly, we fancy, just bloom 

 and thrive and bloom again. Yet there is no confusion in 

 their placement and pattern ; they are filigree and patchwork, 

 scroll and lacework; they represent all that is beautiful and 



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