Percival Lowell
Monday I took a walk on the mesa, toward the dump and back by the road-runner thicket (where the bird was found by me; we found only his trail afterward you remember). The snow I measured, 25 inches deep in the drifts between the trees. But not a spoor of anything but one squirrel.
Yesterday I went southwestward to the new fence, a fine substantial structure and on the hither side of Wolf Cañon on the flat this side of the sumachs I found the first flower, a little white thing of four petals amid lobelike purple leaves. You will probably recall the name. It was growing in the soggy marsh ground left by the melting snow.
Today a regular old-fashioned snow-storm coverliding plants, trees and everything. The bulbs in front of the dining-room were just beginning to spike up yesterday. Now they will have to await another resurrection.
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