YOURS SINCERELY

TIMES CHANGE:

The ARIZONA HIGHWAYS staff are to be congratulated on the typographical and "makeup" characteristics of your magazine.

It is a far cry from the days of Old Man Rogers, who drifted along Whiskey Row in Prescott with a little pad and a stubby pencil in hand, interviewing some prospective mining magnate or Bucky O'Neill after shooting the works and going broke, then seeking an item for the Arizona Miner or Hoof and Horn.

Your article in the September issue entitled "The Hassayampa," recalls to memory the scenes of over fifty years ago, when I worked with Charley Wallace on four claims on the East Fork of the Hassayampa, below Palace Station and the Bodie Mine.

We had a small streak of silver ore that assayed 726 ounces, the tunnel tapped the hill too shallow and our financial resources prevented us from sinking below water level, so after five years prospecting by tunnel and cross-cut our bank-roll looked like an elephant had crushed it.

By the way, would it be asking too much if the ARIZONA HIGHWAYS could write of some of "The Lost Mines of Arizona," i.e. Dutchman, Nigger Ben, Adam's Diggins, Old Madden, Frenchmen in Eagle Tail Mountains and others.

FRIEND IN NORTH IRELAND

During the War, I had the honour and pleasure of working with Lockheed Overseas Corporation and later with the United States Army Air Forces at their Air Base in Northern Ireland.

Occasionally some of the boys would pass on to me a copy of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS and I treasure the eight issues in my possession. The beautiful photography, most interesting articles and exquisite reproduction of the magazine generally delighted not only myself but the other members of my family.

With a sinceré desire to renew my acquaintance with your beautiful State, I write to ask if it is possible for me, living in Northern Ireland, to become a subscriber, and, if so, what steps I can take to become one right away.

Finally, I shall always treasure the happy hours spent with your countrymen as a body, those from the Southwest individually and the chosen few from Arizona in particular. They brought to these rain-sodden shores the breath of hot sunshine, warm winters and majestic, awesome scenery. For this alone I say "Muchas gracias," Thank you.

issues have been sent with the compliments and best wishes of the people of Arizona. ARIZONA HIGHWAYS now goes to practically every country on earth at our regular subscription price.

OF PICTURES ON A WALL:

As you can see from the enclosed photograph, my wall here at the Harvard Graduate School of Business Administration is practically covered with the wonderfully colored pictures from the ARIZONA HIGHWAYS.

Your pictures seem to give me quite an inspiration back here so far from the desert and mountain country of my native Arizona.

The other day a classmate of mine who is a graduate of a Maine college came into the room and was admiring the pictures on the wall. He saw the one of the Superstition Mountains with the saguaros in the foreground and asked me what kind of trees those long green things were in the picture.

Although he has traveled widely in the East and in England, it seems that he has never heard of the saguaro, so he thought that they were some kind of a "tree."

He thought that the ARIZONA HIGHWAYS' picture of Monument Valley was taken somewhere in Egypt, because, he reasoned, "Surely we have nothing like that in the United States."

It looks like more Arizona "missionary" work is needed down east in Maine.

WINDY NIGHT

Windy night! Blow back to me the fragrance of the day In plenteous quantities, So I may breathe your beauty, Embrace the dark, And lose myself in phantasyO windy night! David F. Brinegar.

My loop is wide and hungry. My running-iron is loose. My trail is safely hidden In the chaparral and spruce.

My life is free and lusty; My swift draw makes me right As I drink and fight and gamble In cantinas' smoky light.

But someday in a canyon, Riding wild, though without hope, A lawman's blasting bullet Will coil my restless rope.

Then I'll ride a bucking comet, Or the outlaw lightening's might, And I'll build my herd with starlets From the ranges of the night. Robert M. Webster.

DESERT PRIESTS

The desert's giant cacti raise their hands, With souls unfrayed by dry and scorching sands, Like Priests that reach their arms unto the sky In supplication, sending out their cry; Unmoved in solemn silence while they pray, And ask a benediction on the day. Dell Avon.

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS deeply regrets to announce the death of the American artist, Maynard Dixon, on November thirteenth, nineteen forty-six, at his home in Tucson. A true son of the West, Mr. Dixon faithfully interpreted the West. We were privileged to know him, privileged to have shown his work in these pages. He had been ill for years but neither illness nor suffering dulled the white light of courage and life that burned within him. Just before he died he completed a large mural for the Santa Fe. Next June when the aspen are green and the white clouds of summer roll in over the red cliffs of Southern Utah, the ashes of Maynard Dixon will be scattered to the free winds from his summer home at Mt. Carmel.

At last I shall give myself to the desert again, that I, in its golden dust, may be blown from a barren peak broadcast over the sun-lands.

If you should desire some news of me, go ask the little horned toad whose home is the dust, or seek it among the fragrant sage, or question the mountain juniper, and, by their silence, they will truly inform you. Maynard Dizon