I was allus brought up to understand that love spiles the appetite. It don't, Pete, for I'm sure in love an' I'm hungrier than a spring bear."
***
Late spring on Chico Mesa. A myriad blossom faces pushing up everywhere, even in the desert places. The grass growing and blowing in the wind. But, quilting the level expanse, signs of surer growths, squares of green velvet, vivid, promising. Alfalfa, vigorous under the sun and above the water, sucking up the moisture and transmuting it to lush leaves and stems, presently to purple blossoms that would herald the harvesting of the second crop.
Straight from the foot of Ghost Mountain ran the gleaming line of the main ditch, laterals shining as they stretched east and west. Beef cattle grazing on the spring range or content within fenced pastures. Growth everywhere, regardless of the seasons, laughing at drought. Present growth and steady progress.
Peter and Mary sat in the rocky notch at the edge of the cliff, looking out at the sunset. Below them Lake of the Woods flashed in its tree setting. They could see the foundations of the new power house where the dynamos were to be installed.
On other slopes, that had been barren, little pines were working hard to make a new watershed. Behind them, as they sat silent, in a perfect partnership that did not always need words, the bowl of the Hidden Homestead pitched sharply down
