exico, this land of sunshine, the season is now as ki
any holding bigger than a kitchen garden is known as a ranch. The alamo, Spanish for poplar, lends here and there its scant, stiff shade to th
ne Jersey cows, lies between the house and the orchard,-a not
tches of kitchen garden, carefully
s home, and sage-brush and mesquite strike root in the meagre soil. Cones of alfalfa hay stacked here and there outline themselves lik
s idly tilted against the house-front, the boarders loo
ive finds his Eldorado. Hither, year by year, come these foredoomed children of men to fight for breath, puttin
ss mortals, with the single sad choice of eking out existence far from friends and home,
st the cloudless sky; great hills of sand are these, surmounted by tall, serrated peaks of bare rock, and now taking on their aftern
on every hand detached sugar-loaf peaks lend their magnific
, he is heartening himself by the way with a song. When the listeners hear the familiar tune,-it is "Home, Sweet Home,"-one of them rallying his meagre wind whistles a faint accompaniment to the chorus. It is not a success; a
nd weary, hollow cough predict that the poor fellow's journey will not take h
sportsman steps ch
oy, lazily propped by a neighboring poplar trunk, he cries, "Catch!" and deftly tossing him the game (pigeons from the mesa) goes in to put away his gun. When
w-comer, Leonard Starr. Though not robust, he has the substantial mien and bearing of one who finds it good to live, and makes those about him also find
s that some of its children are "born to t