And his gaunt breast is cactus-haired,
His ways are as rude as the mountain rim—
But the heart of the Desert is bared.
HARLEY R. WILEY,
in Out West Magazine.
APRIL 6.
In the universal pean of gladness which the earth at Eastertide raises to the Lord of Life, the wilderness and the solitary place have part, and the desert then does in truth blossom as the rose. And how comforting are the blossoms of the desert when at last they have come! When the sun has sunk behind the rim of the verdure-less range of granite hills that westward bound my view, and the palpitating light of the night's first stars shines out in the tender afterglow, I love to linger on the cooling sands and touch my cheek to the flowers. Now has the desert shaken off the livery of death, and … is become an abiding place of hope.
CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS,
in Blossoms of the Desert.
APRIL 7.