A brave little company of pioneers from the Atlantic coast crossed the
Mississippi River and journeyed across the plains of Central North
America in big covered wagons with many horses, and finally succeeded in
climbing to the top of the great Rockies and down again into a valley in
the very midst of the mountains. It was a valley of brown, bare, desert
soil, in a climate where almost no rain falls; but the snow on the
mountain-tops sent down little streams of pure water, the winds were
gentle, and lying like a blue jewel at the foot of the western hills was
a marvellous lake of salt water,--an inland sea. So the pioneers settled
there and built themselves huts and cabins for the first winter.

It had taken them many months to make the terrible journey; many had
died of weariness and illness on the way; many died of hardship during
the winter; and the provisions they had brought in their wagons were so
nearly gone that, by spring, they were living partly on roots, dug from
the ground. All their lives now depended on the crops of grain and
vegetables which they could raise in the valley. They made the barren
land fertile by spreading water from the little streams over it,--what
we call "irrigating"; and they planted enough corn and grain and
vegetables for all the people. Every one helped, and every one watched
for the sprouting, with hopes, and prayers, and careful eyes.

In good time the seeds sprouted, and the dry, brown earth was covered
with a carpet of tender, green, growing things. No farmer's garden could
have looked better than the great garden of the desert valley. And from
day to day the little shoots grew and flourished till they were all well
above the ground.

Then a terrible thing happened. One day, the men who were watering the