I felt much more certain that he would get into some scrape than I did that he would find the Injun Jim, and I was grinning inside when I went back to town; though there was a bit of envy in the smile,--one must always envy the man who keeps his dreams through all the years and banks on them to the end.

For myself, I hadn't chased a rainbow for thirty years, and I could not call myself the better for it, either.
* * * * * In September the lower desert does not seem to realize that summer is going.

The wind blows a little harder, perhaps, and frequently a little hotter; the nights are not quite so sweltering, and the very sheets on one's bed do not feel so freshly baked.

But up on the higher mesas there is a heady quality to the wind that blows fresh in your face.

There is an Indian-summery haze like a thin veil over the farthest mountain ranges.
Summer is with you yet; but somehow you feel that winter is coming.
In a country all gray and dull yellow and brown, you find strange, beautiful tints no artist has yet prisoned with his paints.