Arizona Sketches | Page 5

of its quenched fires has even yet scarcely faded away.
Large masses of igneous rocks and broad streams of vitrified lava bear
mute testimony of the change, when, by some mighty subterranean
force, the tumultuous sea was rolled back from its pristine bed and, in
its stead, lofty mountains lifted their bald beads above the surrounding
desolation, and stand to-day as they have stood in massive grandeur
ever since the ancient days of their upheaval. Rugged and bleak they
tower high, or take the form of pillar, spire and dome, in some
seemingly well-constructed edifice erected by the hand of man. But the
mountains are not all barren. Vast areas of fertile soil flank the bare
rocks where vegetation has taken root, and large fields of forage and
extensive forests of oak and pine add value and beauty to the land.
The atmosphere is a striking feature of the country that is as pleasing to
the eye as it is invigorating to the body. Over all the landscape hangs a
veil of soft, purple haze that is bewitching. It gives to the scene a
mysterious, subtle something that is exquisite and holds the senses in a
magic spell of enchantment. Distance also is deceptive and cannot be
estimated as under other skies. The far-off mountains are brought near
and made to glow in a halo of mellow light. Manifold ocular illusions
appear in the mirage and deceive the uninitiated. An indefinable
dreamy something steals over the senses and enthralls the soul.
Arching heaven's high dome is a sky of intense blue that looks so
wonderfully clear and deep that even far-famed Italy cannot surpass it.
The nights are invariably clear and the moon and stars appear unusually
bright. The air is so pure that the stars seem to be advanced in
magnitude and can be seen quite low down upon the horizon.
The changing lights that flash in the sky transform both the sunrise and
sunset into marvels of beauty. In the mellow afterglow of the sunset, on
the western sky, stream long banners of light, and fleecy clouds of gold
melt away and fade in the twilight.
At midday in the hazy distance, moving slowly down the valley, can be
seen spiral columns of dust that resemble pillars of smoke. They ascend
perpendicularly, incline like Pisa's leaning tower, or are beat at various

angles, but always retaining the columnar form. They rise to great
heights and vanish in space. These spectral forms are caused by small
local whirlwinds when the air is otherwise calm, and are, apparently,
without purpose, unless they are intended merely to amuse the casual
observer.
A cloudy day is rare and does not necessarily signify rain. Usually the
clouds are of the cumulus variety and roll leisurely by in billowy
masses. Being in a droughty land the clouds always attract attention
viewed either from an artistic or utilitarian standpoint. When out on
parade they float lazily across the sky, casting their moving shadows
below. The figures resemble a mammoth pattern of crazy patchwork in
a state of evolution spread out for inspection.
The impression that is made while looking out upon such a scene is that
of deep silence. Everything is hushed and still; but, by listening
attentively, the number of faint sounds that reach the ear in an
undertone is surprising. The soft soughing of the wind in the trees; the
gentle rustle of the grass as it is swayed by the passing breeze; the
musical ripple of water as it gurgles from the spring; the piping of the
quail as it calls to its mate; the twitter of little birds flitting from bush to
bough; the chirp of the cricket and drone of the beetle are among the
sounds that are heard and fall soothingly upon the ear.
The trees growing upon the hillside bear a striking resemblance to an
old orchard and are a reminder of home where in childhood the hand
delighted to pluck luscious fruit from drooping boughs. A walk among
the trees makes it easy to imagine that you are in some such familiar
but neglected haunt, and instinctively you look about expecting to see
the old house that was once called home and hear the welcome voice
and footfall of cherished memory. It is no little disappointment to be
roused from such a reverie to find the resemblance only a delusion and
the spot deserted. Forsaken as it has been for many years by the native
savage Indians and prowling wild beasts, the land waits in silence and
patience the coming of the husbandman.

CHAPTER II
MY FIRST TRIP TO ARIZONA
I recall with vivid distinctness my first trip to Arizona and introduction

to ranch life in the spring of 1884. The experience made a deep
impression and has