ARIZONA'S PLACE IN THE SUN

ARIZONA'S PLACE IN THE SUN By Dean Frank C. Lockwood UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

CHESTERTON SAYS the test of a good religion is that it can be joked about. I think the dictum applies better to a state than to religion. Perhaps Arizona's chief virtue is that it has evoked so many jokes and supplied the luxury of so many laughs. Surely, if we make waggishness and comicality the test this state must bear away the guerdon, for these qualities seem to have been ingrained in the very constitution of the early Arizonian. The jokes and jibes aimed at this commonwealth are so well known that I hesitate to repeat any of them; yet every stranger and each new generation is entitled to at least one or two samples of the wit of those who came before us. It is said, for example, that here one must "dig for wood and climb for water;" that in "Arizona you can see farther and see less, that there are more rivers and less water, more cows and less milk, than anywhere else in the world, and that it gets to be a hundred and twenty in the shade, but that you don't have to stay in the shade."

Turbulent Tombstone, from the first, drew upon itself some of the sharpest shafts of humor. There is the story of Owen Wister's conversation with an early inhabitant who was showing him the sights of the town. When they came to Boot Hill, Wister noted, as he viewed with melancholy attention the rough boards erected over the graves of the dead, that most of the occupants died early.

"What did these men die of?" he asked.

"Most of them died of difference of opinion," his guide answered,

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

In the heyday of her glory Tombstone was infested quite as much by crooked lawyers as by gunmen and gamblers, and on one occasion this situation was dramatically illustrated. A citizen was brought into court charged with some misdemeanor and the judge said to him sharply, “Hold up your right hand and be sworn.” The accused instantly threw up both hands; whereupon the Court frowned and said: “I told you to hold up your right hand; what do you mean by holding up both hands?” “Because I know the crowd I’m in,” was the retort.

In Tucson, with the exception of Justice Meyer, judges usually exhibited the dignified and polished manner of the old school. This was particularly true of a certain Judge F from Louisiana. He made it a rule that no lawyer or juryman should appear in his court with his coat off, no matter how hot the Whether might be. One June day, when a jury was being impanelled, a pioneer ranchman who lived some eighty miles to the southwest, across mesa and mountain, presented himself before the judge for jury service in his shirt sleeves. The judge said to him, with some asperity:

“Where is your coat?”

“It’s at home,” was the reply.

“Well, go and get it,” the judge commanded.

The man withdrew and at the end of four days made his appearance again, this time in proper apparel. Said the judge with severity: “Why have you absented yourself all this time? I should be justified in fining you for contempt of court.” “Why, Judge,” the injured man responded, “you told me to go home and get my coat. I live at Gunsight.” Next to humor, romance is, perhaps, the chief alleviant of our mortal stateand Arizona is rich in romance. There is magic and mystery everywhere. No man who gazes upon the desert can escape its allurements. Forever over its face a Mona Lisa smile seems playing. He cannot read its meaning, but it will not let him alone and he is a willing victim to the enchantment. Everywhere is spread a Circean spell that changes human beings-not into swine, but into poets, painters and prevaricators.

Yes, Arizona abounds in romance. Open the book of the past where we may find ourselves in a strange and startling world. Here one confronts the desert and walks in the shadow of death. Our constant associates are horned toads, horned cattle, horned mountains, rattle-

JUNE, 1937 ARIZONA HIGHWAYS

snakes, Gila monsters and bad men-both red and white. We are forever in the midst of cacti, yucca, mesquite, bullets, bowie knives and poisoned arrows. Starvation and mortal thirst are our daily camp-fellows. We come upon the skele tons of crucified Apaches and the bones of tortured emigrants. We move toward martyrdom in the company of barefoot padres, and consort with hunters and trappers shaggier than the buffalo or the grizzly bear. We become boon companions of explorers, prospectors, soldiers, traders, ranchmen, teamsters, stage-drivers, cowboys, Indian agents, gunmen, gamblers, smugglers, and deserters. To be sure, there is glory and glamour spread abroad everywhere. There is the glitter of gold and the tinkle of silver, there are titled adventurers and lovely ladies in distress; there is tropical moonlight and starlight, the gaiety and color of the Spanish fandango, and the sweet chime of mission bells, and there are palpitating painted deserts, purple and rose mountains, crimson sunset skies, and nights of silence and splendor.

The caption of this article: “Arizona's Place in the Sun” is, of course, meant to be playful. Yet it is true that the sun does shine in Arizona. Far and wide over the state it spreads its golden radiance. No Arizonian positively asserts that the sun will shine every day. He is surprised, disappointed, a little depressed if it does not; yet he will never apologize to a stranger nor try to explain such dereliction. Arizonians are so opulent in sunshine so assured and aristocratic in their climatic riches-that they are as little inclined to defend their status as was Caesar's wife to assert a virtue that was above all question.

Perhaps no place in the world are there clearer skies than in Arizona. The atmosphere is marvelously transulcent. As one steps out of a morning and looks off toward the mountains he seems to be moving in a crystal world, and at night the gem-like constellations gleam incredibly bright; and single stars seem to draw near in order to disclose some throbbing message of love or wonder to the entranced watcher.

Astronomers have availed themselves of these remarkable atmospheric conditions. The astronomer's greatest difficulty is not with his telescope but with the atmospheric medium through which all the light that he must study comes. In Arizona, to secure altitudes sufficiently lofty to make observations through a minimum obstruction of atmosphere, it is not necessary to erect observatories on mountain tops where disturbed atmospheric conditions often interfere with the qualities that astronomers call “seeing,” for in this state sites are available on relatively high mesas and plateaus. Again, on account of our dry, dust-free atmosphere and the resulting high transparency it is possible to photograph fainter stars more easily and to measure their heat with diminished atmospheric absorption. Finally there is in this region an unusual degree of constancy in atmospheric condition. The number of unvaryingly clear days and nights is very, very large. In the East an astronomer would