It is evening time, and Don Juan Pacheco Is home at last from Arroyo Seco. His burro, dozing, points an ample ear As the hum of an automobile draws near; An eastern tourist in a fancy car Stops in the road to inquire how far. Juan rolls a smoke, then points the way, Says, "Sixty miles -- maybe -- to Santa Fe." A madonna-like face crowned with jet-black hair Is framed for a moment in the window there. A song floats out on the peaceful vale: Rosita is singing to baby Miguel. @3The ranchita casa@1, with walls quite thick, Is built of adobe, the sun-dried brick. Tall hollyhocks stand like Franciscan friars; Smoke curls like incense from cedar fires. As a holy chant in this sun-baked land Is heard the splash of the Little Rio Grande. An old cottonwood tree casts its shadows far, And now over all gleams the bright evening star. |