PRICE TWO BITS — (25¢) I JUST HAD TO DO IT
DESERT BEAUTIFUL EDITION
DUNGEON GAG SESSION[cartoon by Gerke: Harry and animal helpers lounging around dungeon with piles of books]
[Owl:] I AM A UNION OWL! WORKED ALL NIGHT AND MOST OF THE DAY (A DAY AND A HALF AT TIME AND A HALF FOR THIS GAG AND A HALF — YOU HALF-WIT EDITOR!
[Raven:[ HOW CAN HE EXPECT ME TO QUOTH EVERMORE WITHOUT MY LUNCH?
[Harry:] 17 MORE GAGS AND WE CAN EAT!
[Spider:] HE EVEN HAS ME SPINNING YARNS!
[Tortoise:] I WON A RACE ONCE. BROTHER, IS THAT A JOKE!
[Fox, sleeping:] ZZZZZ
[Desert Rat, head-down:] HERE'S A NEW ANGLE ON AN OLD GAG
[Lizard:] YOU'D BE FLAT TOO IF YOU"D MEEN A BOOKMARK FOR 8 YEARS!
[Porcupine:] THIS ONE 'LL QUILL 'EM DEAD, BOSS!
[book spines:] LEAR, don marquis, B.CERF, BOOTH TARKINGTON, W.SHAKESPEAR, JOSH BILLINGS, S.OMAR BARKER, Artemus Ward, GEO.PECK, FRED ALLEN, M.QUAD, ambrose bierce, DICK-WICK-HALL, NASBY, GEO.ADE, BILL NYE, JAS.WHITCOMB RILEY, BEN J.FRANKLIN, ABE LINCOLN, WALT WHITMAN, J.FRANK DOBIE, WILL ROGERS, CEDRIC ADAMS *, KIM HUBBARD, WEINSTOCK, EVAN EGAR, AESOP
Simplicity of all things, is the hardest to be copied. 2
Packet 4 of Pouch 10 [sic]
This paper is not entered as second class mail. It's a first class newspaper.
[image: black cowboy hat] His... TRADE MARK
Published at Fort Oliver
THOUSAND PALMS, CALIFORNIA
Four Times a Year
ON THE NEWS STANDS NOW
I just had to do it
But sometimes they don't have them.
MAILING PRICE $1.00 A YEAR
This offer expires when I do
Asbestos editions will be forwarded in case you don't make it.
I would rather get into trouble ten times a day than curb my enthusiasms.
I maintain I am different from most editors because I am sane enough to know I am nuts.
Wonderful world . . . sometimes I think poverty has kept me from being a drunkard.
Today, at 77, your Editor does most of his mining in a 'Lighter-Vain' and I hope with a 'Sharper Pick. H.O.
You can tell these are my very own — for if I had stolen them I could have gotten better ones.
PACKET 4 POUCH 11 Harry Oliver's DESERT RAT SCRAP BOOK PAGE 3
This is a Mark Twain tale we haven't come across before — when Mark was at the height of his career he informed a friend: "It took me 10 years to discover that I had no talent for writing."
"And you gave it up?"
"Oh, no! By that time I was too famous!"
Notice in Desert Hot Springs newspaper — "60 acres for sale, between Garnet and Whitewater, if purchased before the next heavy windstorm a three room shack will be included."
Desert Rat Jake Topper, sez: The trouble with chewing tobacco is that you've got to keep your mouth shut lots of times under exasperatin' circumstances.
The burro is everywhere in Baja California, and the burro is an animal which has my unqualified admiration and respect.
My association with burros goes back some six or seven years to a time when Louie brought me a pair of very yourg burros by way of a present.
From the start I befdame completely fascinated by the characters of the burros. Standing side by side, looking almost alike, except that one was blond and the other a brownish brunette, the burros gave no indication of having any character, any individuality, or any interest in their surroundings. But I soon learned that they were distinctive individuals, and that very little happened which escaped their notice. . . .
Within a week they would come when I called them, and for years they had the run of the ranch, romping around like a pair of dogs, following us wherever we went, and on hot days, when we were stretched out in hammocks, they bit the edge of the hammock and started it swinging back and forth, then tried to upset us.
They had the uncanny ability of knowing what was mischief and what wasn't, and rejected everything that wasn't. They dearly loved getting into trouble and then standing with drooping ears, an expression on their faces that said, "Who? Me?" and seeming to be quite dazed by any reproaches that were directed at them.
Afterwards, when I had withdrawn, if I peeked cautiously around a corner of the house, or out of the window, I would see them turn and exchange glances.
There was perfect understanding in those glances, a quiet, comprehensive chuckle. ...
They were uncanny in their knowledge of what they could do that would put a human being at the greatest disadvantage, when they saw fit to do so.
—From "The Land of Shorter Shadows," by Erle Stanley Gardner, copyright 1948 by Erle Stanley Gardner, reprinted by permission of William Morrow and Company, Inc.
In Texas It's Four to an Egg but that's Texas for you. Yes the Armadillo has four young at a time, they all come from one egg — identical quadruplets.
Englishman: "What's that bloomin' noise I 'ear this time at night?"
American: "Why, that's an owl."
Englishman: "Of course it is, but 'oo's 'owling?"
A bee's stinging apparatus actually measures only 1/32 of an inch. The other two feet are pure imagination.
The owl is the only "bird" that can stay out all night without feeling sophisticated.
Dry Camp Blackie says, "A dragonfly can fly with one wing torn completely off." — Blackie is a bad, bad boy.
Mixed birds — The stork delivered a fine baby boy to Mr. and Mrs. C.E. Buzzard of Grass Valley, Calif., one day last week.
Over The Hill
Writing of the old stage drivers in his "As I Remember Them," C.C. Goodwin, the kindly Nevada newspaperman, said: "As it is, the old race have all passed away, as did that driver in Sacramento who, when dying, whispered: "It's a down grade and I can't reach the brake."
May the Great Mystery make sunrise in your heart. —Sioux.
Mules, Burros and the Jackasses That Own Them
Says Foxtail Johnson in the Arizona Farmer: "The tenderfoot that bought the Bar XX spread got ambishus when he saw a picture of the Mizoory mule that was grand champion at the American Royal. He ordered his foreman to buy a son or daughter of that mule, irregardless of cost."
Reminds us of the congressman who, during the depression, proposed that every southern sharecropper be given 10 acres of land, a plow and a mule in foal.
U.S. Army Mule
This is an old Army story, but a good one. A shipment of mules had just arrived and a soldier made the mistake of getting too close to the rear end of one. His comerades caught him on the fly, placed him on a stretcher and started for the hospital. On the way the soldier came to. He gazed at the sky overhead and felt the swaying motion of the stretcher. Feebly he lowered his hand over the side to find nothing but space.
"MY GOD!" he groaned, :I HAVEN'T EVEN HIT THE GROUND YET."
The Newsmen in Korea were wont to laugh at China's use of camels — The old time Army men prayed for the return of the Army Mule in that rough rocky Mpountainous country.
A Mule will pack as much as 20 G.I.'s and go up the side of a mountain that a jeep wouldn't even look at.
The army mule is a marvelous animal, but he's finished, laments Gen. J. Lawton Collins, chief of staff. "I've never seen him do anything that a jeep or bulldozer can't do better." Well, general — ever see either of those contraptions open its mouth to bray?JACKASS CENSUS
A news item: "From the Bureau of the Census last week went out a solemn memo to museum directors advising them that the U.S. had 389,045 Missouri mules in 1920; only 63,223 in 1950."
Not counting of course those in Washington D.C.
IN PEOPLE ONLY KNEW
I told Rip-Snortin' the old time prospector that he'd ruin his stomach drinking his vile home made stuff! — "Nivver mind, nivver mind — it won't show with me pants on."
Changes Her Mind
Stopped to see the oldest oil well in Southern California. Was told that an old timer had been watchman for 40 years; sorta figgered he was the man who could give me its history and the low down about when California was a gory, glorious untapped store of black gold.
Seated on a prostrate walking beam was the watchman. As I approached he put his fingers to his lips — "Shhh" — he said — "see her?" — "There she is!" — I looked where he pointed — emerging from an ancient drill hole was a horned toad! "Her young are about to hatch," he said, "last year she didn't lay eggs, but gave birth to you young; she can't always make up her mind — see?" — "Horned toads cover themselves in the sand with nothin' but their little knobby eyes showin" above the surface," he said, "but I watch 'em and don't believe I ever stepped on one — these 40 years."
Liminatin' Lem says where you find a mink at in Washington you're liable to find skunk.
SAVE THE FORESTS
The lecturer on forest conservation was loudly berating the general public for its indifference to the preservation of our timber resources.
"I don't suppose," he declared, "there is a single person here tonight who has done a single thing toward conserving our timber supply."
After a monentary silence, a meek voice spoke up from the rear, "I did. I once shot a woodpecker."
A rancher near Lancaster, heard that turkeys would eat grasshoppers; so he turned his flock loose in the fields. The turkeys came back bare; the grasshoppers ate the feathers off them, he says.
Captain Catnip Ashby was discussing the belief that after a person dies he comes back to this earth in the form of some animal. Jake Topper said he didn't like that idea — he might come back as a worm.
The Captain assured Jake there was no danger of that — you never come back the same as you were.
An old Newspaper, published in 1848 was found in the Garret of an old desert shack. The paper is framed and is in the Pony Express Museum. The following letter is printed in the paper:"Dear Jim;
"Come right off if you are comin' at all, as Silas Haimes is 'sistin' that I shall have him and he hugs and kisses me so continuously that I can't hold out much longer. I must have him or you very quick fer my feelin's sich that I must git me a feller before next winter. I jist can't stand it nohow much longer.
Sally Ann P."
The Museum comments, "Red Hot Mama in 1848. Mae West was an iceberg as compared with this ancient Cleopatra."
Out-Wickenburg-WayEagle Delivers Goose; Now Sam McGehee Can Eat with No Pellets in His Palate
Some of the screwiest things happen around Wickenburg.
If we didn't know that the Sam McGehees were honest people we'd be prone to throw this yarn on the town dump. But it did happen.
SAM was out at his Divide Ranch, 14 miles west of town, last week and decided to look over one of his tanks. Some wild geese were enjoying a swim until Sam came on the scene when they took to the air. When they were some 800 to 1,000 feet overhead an eagle swooped down and sunk his claws into one goose.
A GOOSE being about as heavy as an eagle, it seems the eagle didn't have enough eagle-power to negotiate the goose and not enough sense to turn loose so eagle and goose came tumbling down.
ALL Sam had to do was frighten the eagle away and pick up the goose. And on Saturday, when wife Peggy knocks off at noon from her city hall work, she'll fix up the stuffing and on Sunday the McGehees will feast on wild goose with no danger of getting pellets in their palates.
The Ax Indispensable Friend of the Pioneers
Charley Russell, the great Western artist, sold a painting to old Cattle King Lane of Calgary, Canada. It was a picture of a punch of his cowboys around the chuck wagon in the morning, some of them eating and some getting on their horses and one horse bucking through the campfire. Near by was an ax and wood for the fire. It was a big picture with lots of people and action in it.
Well, he sent for Mr. Lane to come down to Great Falls, Montana, where Charley lives to see the picture. Land looked at it quite a while and Charley said he began to feel that there was something terribly wrong with it. He knew the old man knew for he had been a cowpuncher all his life.
Finally he said, "Charley, you aint' got that ax handle wrapped with rawhide. You know them cooks was hell for breaking ax handles in them days."
Charley picked up a brush and wrapped the ax handle with it, and the old cattle king handed over his paltry ten thousand bucks for it and took his ax handle back to Canada.
BRAND NEW RELIC
The ax is a tool of romance. From earliest history on down through the Stone age, the Bronze age and the Iran age, and more especially during th time of America's early pioneers, the ax has been the indispensable friend of man. And it is the one thing most liable to be left when moving camp.
"Curly" Carroll of Randsburg has an ax he's mighty proud of, claims it came across the country with his grand-pappy in a covered wagon. In asking him about it I commented on the ax because it seemed as good as when his grand-pappy bought it. "Well," replied "Curley" after a thoughtful pause, "It's had three new blades and five new handles, but excepting for that, she's just the same, sir, just the same."
TELLING ABOUT WHEN A MAN'S WEALTH WAS MEASURED BY THE SIZE OF HIS BEDROLL...
Saw an old Model-A car parked on Main street the other morning to which was roped three bedrolls. The car carried an Arizona license, and the three occupants who got out and went into a cafe for breakfast looked like dyed-in-the-wool prospectors.
Those three bedrolls held my eye. All were fair sized, and well roped. Back in the old days when prospecting was a fairly common profession, and there was a chance for a man to find a profitable mineral showing, size of the bedroll carried by an individual was usually indicative of his wealth and importance. The man with a good outfit, or who was grubstaked by some merchants or saloonmen, usually carried a fat bedroll — a mattress, wool blankets, a real pillow and a good heavy tarpulin. The poor prospector — the man who worked in the mines for his grubstake, and who lived frugally out in the hills on beans, bacon and flapjacks, carried a small bedroll. At most a couple of worn soiled blankets, no pillow as a rule, and a piece of old canvas. He was accustomed to berdding down on the ground and seldom slept warm when the weather was cold. Instead of a wide strong leather strap around his bedroll he used a bit of frayed rope, or even a couple lengths of Mormon waxends — baling wire.
How often out in the hills 40 and 50 years ago have we envied the plutocrat prospector with the bulging bedroll! Envy grew to bitter jealousy at nightfall when we bedded down beside fire in some lonely canyon or near a spring in some wind-swept valley. We have seen times when we were tempted to murder a man for his bedroll. Lying out on a cold night under the stars, perhaps shivering, we would hear our rich friend buried deep in his soft wool blankets, a mattress between his bones and the ground, quietly snoring, as the stars moved slowly and unnoticed through the windy sky.
Yes, there were plutocrats among prospectors back in the days when Butler found Tonopah — and we'll wager that Jim, down on the county tax roll for $10, never carried more than a couple of thin blankets and a bit of ragged tarp.
This page is dedicated to the World's Greatest Optimist - the DESERT PROSPECTOR
Harry Oliver's DESERT RAT SCRAP BOOK 4
NEVADA Bad Men Buried Alone
The Murphy mine was the only producer of any importance in this district, located on the east flank of the Toiyabe range, about 50 miles south of Austin, but in Nye county. A party of French prospectors wandered into the area in 1863. It was a costly operation, with supplies hauled in from Austin over the summit of the Toiyabes at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. The Murphy mine is credited with a production of $750,000, but the mine paid no dividends. An enormous mill building, built of brick, and ruins of several stone houses on the side of the canyon above the mill, are about all that remain today. Ophir creek, a small clear stream of tumbling water is a favorite trout stream, and each year is visited by dozens of fishing parties.
At the mouth of Ophir Canyon, placer gold was discovered a few years ago, but so far nothoing has come of the discovery. On the side-hill where the canyon breaks down into Smoky Valley, is a small cemetary, with perhaps 25 graves, many of them containing children. Names of most of those buried there, are now forgotten. Below the main cluster of mounds are several isolated graves. In one of these a gunman, name now unknown, was buried. "Rutabaga Tom," and old Indian, still living, tells the following story of this lone grave:
"One bad man, nobody like, buried there, because nobody wants him close to good people. He mean man, killum man just for fun. One time he pick fight with young fellow called Black Bart. They promise fight battle. Each take gun, stand back to back, then walk off thirty steps, but this bad mans he walk only take twenty steps, then he turn quick like rattlesnake striking and shoots at Black Bart. Mebbyso he excited, for he miss target. Black Bart he walk 30 steps, turn, and bad man he is running off. One shot — and he fall — dead. Dead all over. Good people bury bad man all by himself, so he won't go to happy hunting grounds, with other mans."
A true desert turtle story
Any of you old Desert Rats want to bet a gallon of good whiskey that the following turtle story ain't true?
Old Bill Goeglein a retired assayer, now living in Wickenburg, Aiz., is noted for his veracity all over this desert.
In May, 1921, he went to Los Angeles and drove back a new Ford car. About five miles west of Amboy, Calif., he noticed the whole country ahead seemed to be moving and it was. A great migration of turtles was crossing the road ahead. The deep ruts in the road were filled with turtles and hundreds and thousands of them were crossing over them, moving in a northerly direction.
To the south as far as he could see and to the north as far as he could see was a moving mass of turtles spaced a few feet apart. As there seemed no end in sight, he decided to drive through them. He put her into low and ground through turtle meat, blood and guts for a full quarter mile before getting clear of the great migration.
When he arrived at the little filling station at Amboy, he stopped to clean the wheels and fenders of turtle meat. While there a small truck came in with the same experience.
After Old Bill told me this story, I made it a point to ask every old Desert Rat I met if he ever saw anything like this. In time I found an old cow puncher who saw the same thing in southwestern New Mexico. Thousands of turtles were crossing the Southern Pacific tracks and were piled up trying to get over the rails. A number of Indian Squaws were there filling funny sacks with turtles. One old Squaw said that the turtles from all over the desert went to a certain place to lay their eggs. After which they all migrated so as to leave the feed for the young turtles. Sounds reasonable.
MANANABy S. Omar Barker
Manana is a Spanish word I'd sometimes like to borrow
It means "don't skeen no wolfs today that you don't shot tomorrow!
An' eef you got some jobs to do, in case you do not wanna
Go 'head an' take siesa now! Tomorrow ees manana!"
CREMATED CURRENCY By John Hilton
After the white man's "sanitary laws" made the desert Indian quit his practical and sanitary custom of cremating the dead, some ceremony had to be held at the grave so in many cases a token cremation of a doll dressed as the late lamented surrounded by the most prized possessions of the deceased took place over the grave.
At one of these burnings a Chinese merchant who had done business with the well-to-do chief while he was alive, was present to pay his respects. He watched quietly while they placed articles of clothing, a saddle and many other things on the pyre but when they topped it off with a large roll of U.S. currency, then he decided things had gone too far.
Calling a couple of the principal mourners aside he explained that to burn U.S. money was a federal offerse punishable by imprisonment.
"Well, what can we do?" They questioned.
The Chinaman's expression never changed. "Velly simple," he replied. "You givee monee me. I countee money, givie you check you burnie check. Chief cashee check in happy hunting grounds."
OLD TIMERS Shorty Harris JACKASS PROSPECTORBy ROBERT J. SWEM From the Hobo News
Out in Death Valley, Calif., where the sun beats down every day of the year, there is a beautiful little monument bearing a plaque which reads:
"Here lies Shorty Harris, a single blanket jackass prospector."
Old time westerners and prospectors spin many yarns about this little, unassuming character who came West after the Civil War in search of gold.
Folks say he was born up around Rhode Island in 1856 or '57 — they ain't sure. His father and mother died soon after he was born, and he went to live wih his aunt. He wasn't fond of the aunt, and at fourteen ran away and headed west.
Shorty used to boast about the fact that he and President Grant arrived in California on the same train back in '76 — the only difference being that President Grant was ensconced on the comfortable plush cushions of the Presidential Special, while Shorty rode directly below on the none too comforting rods.
For years Shorty could be seen tramping the desert country, from Reno to Bisbee, from Mojave to Salt Lake City — always in the never-ending search for riches that somehow eluded his grasp. There was the time in 1904 when he made a strike around the Bullfrog Hills of Nevada. Shorty sold his discovery for $800 and spent the money on "Juniper Juice, as he affectionately called it. The mine later sold for $100,000.
Of course, this only proved what most folks had always said about Shorty: He would rather hunt for gold than mine it, and whenever he got his hands on any money he wouldn't know what to do with it, except, perhaps, to go on a spree until it was gone.
Shorty's life, however, was not without romance. There was the time when he thought about settling down with some nice woman, and having something running around the house besides a white picket fence. This thought came to him while he was working in a blacksmith shop in Ballarat, a little town in Panamint Valley. A Miss Bessie Hart was the object of Shorty's affections, and in his own words, "She was one right pert woman, as women come and go."
This Belle of Ballarat was well over six feet tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds. Rumor had it that she had, on occasion, treated a couple of husky men pretty rough. This seemed to make little difference to Shorty, who stood a scant five feet, and tipped the scales around one twenty. He was in love with this Desert Amazon, and that's all that mattered.
Shorty was putting an edge on one of his mining picks in the blacksmith shop, and Bessie was pumping the bellows for him, when Cupid let his arrow fly.
"How 'bout you 'n' me gettin' hitched?" said he, suddenly looking up at her.
Bessie straightened to her full six feet and placed her large hands on her none too narrow hips.
"Shorty," she declared, "you're a right nice little guy, and I like you, but as my husband — well, you're just too damn little for a big job."
"Reckon mebbee you're right," said Shorty. "Will you get them bellows workin' again?"
Shorty lived until he reached the age of seventy-three. When his time drew near, he called his friends to his bedside and requested that he be buried in the country that he had known and loved so well.
The spot where they laid him to rest in Death Valley is the deepest grave ever dug in the soil of North America — 280 feet below sea level.
And Shorty would be proud and happy if he could rise up and say:
"Well, if I ain't in hell, then I'm closer to it than anyone in the world!"
Died of Thirst
"Died of Thirst" proclaimed the crudely painted epitath on an upended boulder that marked a nameless grave near the Trona-Randsburg road near the "Y." Now it's gone, probably prey to a thoughtless souvenir hunter. The stone marked the last resting place of a mule skinner who was found dead at the spot many years ago by a search party that went out to look for him after he failed to arrive from Randsburg with his 20-mule team load of freight. The hapless victim had apparently attempted to disentangle the harness on the mules, and somehow died in the process. For many years a white picket fence market the grave. The fence was destroyed by an exodus of Hindu laborers who were leaving Trona after having worked on building of the Trona Railroad. Later a wag buried a pair of old boots on the grave, with only the toes sticking out of the ground. Still later the "Died of Thirst" stone appeared. Now the grave is unmarked.
HERE'S ONE OLD TIMER
Old Timers in the Indian Wells Valley seem to go right on living. It is that kind of a climate. One of the oldsters, reputed to be 105 years old, was interviewed by a reporter.
"What do you think about women?"
"To tell you the truth, Mister, I quit thinking about women two years ago."
DRY WASH SMITH My Stand-In
A tourist asked Dry Wash, "How do you grow old so gracefully?" "Madam," he said, "I just give all my time to it."
Two Stories of Old Fort OliverBy Ben Bean
Back in 1788 as the story goes, soon after the Paula [sic] Branch Mission was completed, some sturdy Franciscan fathers arrived at Mil Palmeas and started a small branch mission. According to the old story the 13 arches that had been built crumbled from earthquake shock and discouraged the builders who left in a severe sandstorm to return to mission San Luis El Rey.
As near as historians can determine, it was in 1858, the heighth [sic] of Butterfield stage days, that Enrico Oliveras with the help of his two brothers built the Wells Fargo stage station in between the ruined arches.
A year later the stage road was changed and Enrico, discouraged, went back to Mexico.
In 1874, when the railroad came to Mil Palmeas, the old ruins were again roofed and an addition added, and was used by Frederick William Oliver, a railroad surveyor, as his headquarters, and received its name, Fort Oliver.
Fort Oliver, as it is called today, is said by some old timers to have been build years ago by a showman, Harry Oliver, also known in Mexico as Enrico Oliveras.
An expert and an authority on early Californian architecture who has collected and surrounded the old Fort with true western relics.
He is the same Harry Oliver who spent years as an expert on Western Art and research for the motion pictures of Hollywood, having been the Art Director on the pictures, "Viva Villa," "Will Rogers Pictures" also designer of western exposition shows at Fort Worth, Dallas and San Diego, author of 50 desert stories.
He is a leader in treks in search of lost mines and buried treasures such as the Peg Leg, Lost Gun Sight, and Lost Dutchman mines.
You may have seen him at Rodeo and Western shows in his old rickety 1928 Ford Station Wagon.
Whiskers, his famous dog, and he will be selling his well known publication, "The Desert Rat Scrap Book."
[image: anthropormorphic opuntia cactus] Night-Watchman. Fort Oliver
NOT MUCH TO TALK ABOUT
The insurance man went to the hospital to see Dynamite Dan. He wanted a full account of the mine explosion; wanted all the details—
"Well, sir," said Dan, "it was like this: you see, I was standing with me back to the mine. All of a sudden I hears a hell of a noise; then, sir, this yellow headed nurse, she says to me, 'Set up an' try to take this.'"
DESERT RATS and SOURDOUGHS about the same
Black Sullivan, who used to be around Dawson, was given the job of escorting a "looney" outside. All the boys gave him much advise. Said one: "Be sure and handcuff yourself to him or you may wake up and find him gone."
"If I lose him," answered Black, "I'll just grab the first prospector I come to and nobody will ever know the difference."
The "Screaming Sands" of "Smuggler's Charybdis"
The Algodones, fascinating sand dunes 20 miles west of Yuma, Arizona, lie one half in the United States and one half in Mexico, 75 miles long and from 18 to 24 miles wide. This sea of sand dunes (some two hundred feet high) is free of as much as a blade of grass but for one oval-shaped island one half mlong [sic] straddling the border. This is— "Smuggler's Charbydis."
A flowing spring, its water quickly blotted up by the sand dunes; desert growth as one would find 20 miles east or west; the free whie sand sloping to the gorund on all sides — no explanation of this permanent wind eddy (it is an outward — instead of an inward eddy) that screams the screams of a woman in a whirlpool has come to the Editor these many years. — The smugglers camp here miles away from road or trail, watering their burros — knowing the screaming of the ravishing woman means their fresh tracks are erased from the desert sands.
From the unpublished book by the Editor, THE LEGENDS OF MOTHER DESERT, with 100 paintings in color by the great Desert Painters of today.
Look nice in Arizona Highways wouldn't they?
PORCUPINE PINING By S. Omar Barker
Romance to Mr. Porcupine I have no doubt, is sweet But how does he know, the poor dumb Joe, It's not just prickly heat?
By the time this packet hits the water holes they will have machines to do a better and faster job of everything that people have to do in this world, except think and get the best of a woman in an argument.
. . . Pueblo Pete opines: "They will never make a machine, amigo, that will take a siesta for me.
Gene Sherman — L.A. Times
THE TRUE STORY OF SCOTTY
SIMPLE LIFE IN DESERT CASTLES 5
A party of tourists came to the camp of two old desert prospectors (they had missed two meals) they were fed stew and honestly believed it the best they had ever tasted. One stout lady tourist offered twenty dollars for the recipe. The prospectors wsanted the twenty bucks but the stew had been stewing for three weeks and the prospectors had alternated each day so as each could use his imagination for a change of flavor daily. They got the twenty by giving the old gal a can of the stew and a letter to Charlie the Assayer, telling him to assay the stuff.
One Day of Gold
The San Juan River was completely dry for a day. A rancher and his family with the aid of screw drivers, knives, and other sharp implements cleaned out the crevices in the river bed for half a mile each side of their ranch. The gold was panned and netted seventeen hundred dollars. The next day the river was flowing again, and hasn't been dry these sixteen years since.
You can hardly write a lie but what it is, or has been, the truth sometime in Tombstone. Tombstone hade almost as many tourists in the old days of our west as it now has. The tourist wants lies, I wanted lies and was taken to an eighty-year-old champ, to hear of the "Lost Skeleton Canyon Loot" and other lost treasures of gold, of bad men, boot hill, stage robberies and old time killings. He sat in the sun and smiled as I walked toward him. "Hello, old timer," I said, "You've done a good job of growing old, tell me how."
He told me the way to grow old is to pay no attention to it. Some men retire from business at sixty or so, build bungalows in L.A. and do nothing ever afterward but sit on the front porch and listen to their arteries hardening. That's a bad thing.
I agreed, but wanted some of his famed lies, so as to get him started let go a (come on) "I should think, by the look of things, that nothing ever happens here." "Oh!" he answered, "It's a pretty lively place for its size — why it's not two weeks since we had an eclipse of the moon!"