na, but the Arizona cowboys are sometimes called "vaqueros."]

IN AGE THE CRICKET CHIRPS AND BRINGS--

_A faltering step on life's highway,
A grip on the bottom rung;
A few good deeds done here and there,
And my life's song is sung.
It's not what you get in pelf that counts,
It's not your time in the race,
For most of us draw the slower mounts,
And our deeds can't keep the pace.
It's for each what he's done of kindness,
And for each what he's done of cheer,
That goes on the Maker's scorebook
With each succeeding year._
--WOON.

While I was farming on the Sanford ranch a brother-in-law of D. A.
Sanford, Frank Lawrence by name, came to live with me. Frank was a
splendid fellow and we were fast friends.

One day during the Rodeo we were out where the vaqueros were working and
on our return found our home, a 'dobe house, burned down, and all our
belongings with it, including considerable provisions. My loss was
slight, for in those days I owned a prejudice against acquiring any more
worldly goods than I could with comfort pack on my back; but Frank lost
a trunk containing several perfectly good suits of clothes and various
other more or less valuable articles which he set great store by,
besides over a hundred dollars in greenbacks. We hunted among the ruins,
of course, but not a vestige of anything savable did we find.

Three days later, however, Sanford himself arrived and took one look at
the ruins. Then, without a word, he started poking about with his stick.
From underneath where his bed had been he dug up a little box containing
several hundred dollars in greenbacks, and from the earth beneath the
charred ruins of the chest of drawers he did likewise. Then he stood up
and laughed at us. I will admit that he had a perfect right to laugh.
He, the one man of the three of us who could best afford to lose
anything, was the only man whose money had been saved. Which only goes
to prove the proverbial luck of the rich man.

Not long after this experience I moved to Crittenden, where I farmed
awhile, running buggy trips to the mines in the neighborhood as a side
line.

One day a man named Wheeler, of Wheeler & Perry, a Tucson merchandise
establishment, came to Crittenden and I drove him out to Duquesne. On
the way Wheeler caught sight of a large fir-pine tree growing on the
slope of a hill. He pointed to it and sa