fascinating interest. They prove that Nature needs some human
association to appeal strongly to us, and how man's history of smiles
and tears gives pathos, mystery, and romance to scenes which
otherwise would be merely coldly beautiful or terribly sublime. It is
for this reason, doubtless, that we are always endeavoring to
personify Nature. We think of solitary trees as lonely, of
storm-tossed waves as angry, and of a group of mountains as members
of one family. Thus some of the Arizona mountains are called
brothers. No doubt their birth was attended by the same throes of
Mother Earth, and they possess certain family resemblances in their
level summits, huge square shoulders, and the deep furrows in their
rugged cheeks; while all of them evince the same disdain for
decoration, scorning alike the soft rich robes of verdure and the
rough storm-coats of the pines.

[Illustration: A GROUP OF MESAS.]

[Illustration: ON THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL.]

The idea of companionship in Nature is not wholly fanciful. Is not
the fundamental law of the universe the attraction which one mass of
matter has for another? Even the awful distances in interstellar
space form no exception to this rule; for telescopic scrutiny reveals
the fact that planets, suns, and systems move in harmony, on paths
which indicate that they are all associated in the stupendous drama
of the skies. The human interest connected with the mountains and the
_mesas_ of New Mexico and Arizona is not very great. No mediaeval
mystery haunts these castles sculptured by the hand of Nature. No
famous romancer has lighted on their cliffs the torch of his poetic
fancy. No poet has yet peopled them with creatures of his