On the morrow the sun shone warm and bright, and on the mesa, and on all
the desert-stretches of mesquite and sage-brush, on the broad alfalfa
fields and outlying acres of Alamo Ranch, there was no longer a flake of
snow.
Early in this sunny day the star boarder and the Pourer, driven by a
leisurely chore-boy, might have been seen taking their way to Las
Cruces, the nearest village and postal centre, intent on the procurement
of sundry wafers, biscuit, and other edibles pertaining to an afternoon
tea.
El Paso, the Texan border-town, some forty miles distant, is properly
the emporium of that region. Between it and Las Cruces lies a stretch of
desert more barrenly forlorn than the Long Island pine-lands, since it
is totally void of forest growth, and has but here and there a sprinkle
of mesquite-bushes about three feet in height, the rest being bare
sand-ridges.
At El Paso one may ride in street cars, luxuriate in rain-proof
dwellings, lighted by electricity, and pretty with lawns and
flower-pots. But even at its best, modern civilization, with its push
and bustle, ill becomes the happy-go-lucky native Mexican sunning
himself in lazy content against the adobe of his shiftily built
dwelling.
In a land of well-nigh perpetual blue sky, why need mortal man scramble
to make hay while the sun shines? Yesterday has already taken care of
itself. To-day is still here, and always there is _mañana_--to-morrow.
As for our own upstart civilization, in this clime of ancient Pueblo
refinements one must own that it takes on the color of an impertinence,
and as incongruously exhibits itself as a brand-new patch on a long-worn
garment.
But to return to Las Cruces, which is "fearfully and wonderfully made."
To look at the houses one might well fancy that the pioneer settlers had
folded their hands and prayed for dwellings, and when the answering
shower of mud and adobe fell, had contentedly left it where it stuck.
All these structures are one-storied, and square-built; each has its one
door, a window or two, and a dumpy roof, fashioned for the most part of
wattles, for, as it seldom rains here, the Las Crucean has no
troublesome prejudice in favor of water-tight roofs. When the sun shines
he is all right; and when it rains, he simply moves from under the drip.
Here, among confectionery that had long since outlived its desirability,
among stale baker's cookies and flinty ginger snaps, the Koshare
commissariat foraged discouragedly for the afternoon tea.
Duly supplied with these time-honored sweets, Leon and the Pourer, thus
indifferently provisioned, turned their faces homeward, at such moderate
pace as seemed good in the eyes of an easy-going Mexican pony and his
lazy Indian driver.
On the afternoon of that day Mrs. Bixbee, in her airy bed-chamber,
where the folding-bed in the day-time masqueraded as a black walnut
bookcase, gave the first Koshare afternoon tea.
Mrs. Fairlee poured from a real Russian Samovar brought over from the
Hilton Ranch for this grand occasion. Somewhat to the general surprise,
the Grumbler made his bow to the hostess in evening clothes, and though
not exuberantly Koshare, he was in an unwontedly gracious mood;
partaking with polite zest of the stale chocolates, tough cookies, and
flinty ginger snaps; munching long-baked Albert biscuit; serenely
bolting puckery Oolong tea; and even handing the cups,--large and
substantial ones, kindly furnished from their landlady's pantry,--and
commending their solidity and size as far preferable to the Dresden and
Japanese "thimbles" commonly appearing on afternoon tea-tables. As for
the Pourer, it must be recorded that her grace, facility, and charm of
manner gave even stone china tea-cups an air of distinction, and lent to
Oolong tea and stale cakes a flavor of refinement. It was on Monday that
this function came off successfully.
The next Koshare festivity in regular order was the shooting-match.
Leon, who had inherited from some Nimrod of his race, long since turned
to dust, that _true eye_ and steady hand which make gunning a success,
was here master of ceremonies as well as contributor of prizes.
The first of these, a pair of gold sleeve-links, he, himself, easily
won, and subsequently donated to Dennis the dudish table-waiter. Of the
five prizes, two others were won by the two impecunious lungers, one by
the Harvard man, and another by the Antiquary. The shooting-match,
enjoyed as it was by the near population of Mesilla Valley, proved a big
success, and weekly grew in grace with the aborigines as having a fine
flavor of circus shows and Mexican bull-fights, and was considered by
the Koshare as one of their happiest hits.
Equally successful was the Thursday entertainment, held in the big
dining-room, under the auspices of the landlord and his wife, with the
cook, waiter, maids, and chore-boys gathered about the open door.
It consisted of vocal and instrumental music, and recitations in prose
and rhyme; and, at a late hour, wound up with a bountiful supper
contributed to the occasion by the generous landlord.
Miss Hemmenshaw, the star performer, gave, with admirable Rachelesque
gesture and true dramatic fire, "The Widow of the Grand Army," recited
with exquisite delicacy Shelley's "Cloud," and sent shivers down the
backs of the entire assemblage, by a realistic presentation of
Rossetti's "Sister Helen." The grey-eyed school-marm recited with
genuine "School of Oratory" precision and finish "Barbara Frietchie,"
Holmes' "Chambered Nautilus," Longfellow's "Sandalphon," and "Tom
O'Connor's Cat." Leon read, with admirable humor, some of Mr. Dooley's
best; and the Harvard man brought down the house with Kipling's "Truce
of the Bear."
There was some fine piano and banjo playing, and the singing of duets;
and the Journalist rendered, in his exquisite tenor, Ben Jonson's rare
old love-song, "Drink to me only with thine eyes."
"Strange," commented the Antiquary (who in his miscellaneous mental
storage had found room for some fine old Elizabethan plays), turning to
Miss Hemmenshaw in the pause of the song, "Ben Jonson is dust these
three hundred years, and still his verses come singing down the ages,
keeping intact their own immortal flavor. The song-maker's is, indeed,
an art that 'smells sweet, and blossoms in the dust.' Well might they
write him, 'O rare Ben Jonson.'"
"And how exquisitely," responded the lady, "is the air married to the
words!" And now the Minister brought forward his Cremona. He was a
finished violinist, with a touch that well-nigh amounted to genius. All
praised his performance. At its close the Grumbler, in an aside to the
Antiquary, thus delivered himself:--
"To _some_, God giveth common-sense; to _others_, to play the fiddle!"
From the entry audience the fiddler won rousing rounds of applause, and
Dennis, the waiter, ventured on the subdued shuffle of an Irish jig.
This it was that suggested to the Koshare an impromptu dance, and
thereupon the young people straightway took the floor. The Minister,
kindly oblivious of his cloth, fiddled on; Miss Paulina called off the
figures, and so, merrily, ended the first Koshare evening
entertainment.