en
she looked away over toward the mountains and saw a big, lumbering
wagon, drawn by four strong horses, come creeping down the road. Long
before it reached camp she could see that there were several people on
it and then she saw the children.

There were four of them, three little blue eyed girls with flaxen hair
and a slightly older brother with the same light hair but who looked at
the world through a pair of big, laughing brown eyes. They were staying
twenty miles up the valley with their parents who had charge of a small
cattle ranch, and Mother and children were having a holiday going to
town with Father. They stopped to water the horses and you may be sure
that it did not take long for the children to become acquainted. Not
many little folks live on the desert and playmates are almost unknown.
As it turned out, Father and Mother went on to town alone and left the
children to enjoy one another until their return on the following day.

Mary's mother was always planning surprises, so when she appeared with
two large lunch baskets heaped with goodies, Mary realized that this
would be a May day party unlike any she had ever before seen. Six burros
were kept ever ready in the corral and these were caught and saddled for
the children. Mother rode her Indian pony, a Christmas gift from Father.
As they passed the mill and wound up the trail by the main shaft of the
mine, the men were changing shift and as the cage swung up to the
surface the miners called a cheery good-bye, for they were very fond of
Mary.

They ascended the next rise and what they saw was fairyland. They were
at the entrance of a canyon. A tiny stream of water ran in the center
and beside it wound a narrow trail. Foothills rolled up on either side
and the steep walls were a mass of flowers. Wild heliotrope, thistle,
poppies, white, pink and yellow gillias, long-leaved wild tobacco, with
its rich yellow blossoms, all were massed together and far more
beautifully arranged than the stiff gardens in Central Park.

"Aunt Louise," called Jack to Mamma, who was riding behind with the
little girls, "isn't that a campfire up on the next hill?"

"No, Jack," she replied, "not a fire, only a smoke tree. That is why it
received its name. The branches are grayish with tiny sage-green leaves
and at a distance it is often mistaken for a fire as it is all so
delicate and filmy."

By this time Jack had ridden ahead for a closer inspection of the bush
and startled