The National tribune., 1899-07-20

and yellow, and, the taller ones have bios
SONS of a pure bright magenta shade.
There is one pis suthere whose bossoming
| reminds one of the legend of the boSsoming
| of JoSeph'S staff,Or that other miracle when
TannhauSer, weary and worn alter his
| ti!grimage TO Rome rs told at the cathedral
pSepS that stern sentence of the holy father,
that not until his dry, hard pilgrims staff
shall blossom fairly, shall such sinner
have forgiveness 1t mercifully blossoms
and the only CLINT of sunlight in the grim
old story of thiSssinuing youth is this sign
of Gods great forgiveness and the hope
| that the Towering fHings that the penitent
| shall see that Heaven where the gentle
Elizabeth has gomez The miracle of this
country is accomplished every year and Is
unheeded by thoses unbleSSed ones who
think little Of the beauty of the hills or the
color of the skies or the wonder of flowers,
and thereby miss the JOY of joys, which IS
beauty.
There is certain rough, prickly, one
stalked growth which is much used to make
a rude sort of hedge, whose leaning pallngs
look like so many brown. dead dry, old,
cruelty thOrny rose tree Stalks-very rough
and very lifeless. but some Summer morn
ing each stalk flashes forth in a scarlet
flower as brilliant, fine and fresh as ever
grew from the green and leafy stems OF a
garden rose. This fair crown caught to the
crest of the rude interlacing stalks must
give one pause and set him to think OF the
contrast and some reason for 1t.
FLOWERS OF Ell PASO.
There is a certain exuberant thistle in
these parts which blossoms like a poppy,
with six big, crumpled, Silken leaves about
shining center. Wide stretches OF 1t
decorate the roadsides, and the petals fly
in the wind and the yellow centers turn to
catch the last gints of the sun going down
out of the heavens. There are no dande-
liOns-at least have found none so far, and
the only other botanist | have talked with,
little siX-year-old kindergartener, assures
me that she has never seen one; which
seems very sad for little glrl never to
have known dandeliOnS, never to have
made curls from their stalks and clocks
from their fluffy seed heads; but she says
there are none, and saw none.
There is a little remote cousin of the
dandelion that puts a few gold buttons
about in the sandy and rocky places; a
sweet wild verbena that scents the little
breezes, plenty of black-eyed slIsans, or
some near kin to them, and certain tough
weed which flowers i'll saffron and has a
dark beautyspot on its lower lip; but there
are no ViOletS or anemoneS, no trout lilies,
buttercupS or dandelions.
OF course, the Mexican SurpaSSeS the
American III music. There has only been
one race yet discovered which does not
the ChlneSe-and | suppose they think
themselves vastly better off for harmony
than we are. The most grudging admrer
of our country and its characteristics, how
ever. must admit that we can make better
music than the Cinnamon can, and there
is this little scrap of comfort in comparison.
The Mexican seems to have music in his
soul. and 10 be able to make it come out of
his fingers.
An American who lived in Mexico told
me that Il Mexican musician could play
anything that had two strings or two notes
TO pound out of it, and make sweet music.
The Mexican dances and serenades have
that combination of slow minor intervals
that make one tremble and sigh from head
to foot, and the wild rush of gay, pulsing
measures that sets the heart to dancing
with them-music that can do as it will
with ones tears and smiles.
Altogether the days spent in these sandy