The University of Arizona is situated in the newer part of the town. Its buildings are of classic architecture, well proportioned, their simple, dignified lines suited to the exuberance of nature surrounding them. Still new, its landscape gardening has been happily planned in a country which aided the gardener rapidly to achieve his softening effect. The grounds boast two attractions Northern colleges must forego, an outdoor swimming pool and a cactus garden, in which all known varieties of cactus grown in the state are found. The University necessarily lacks some advantages of older colleges, but it owns a rare collection of Indian basketry and pottery. The well-known archeologist, Prof. Byron Cummings, who was the first white man to behold the Rainbow Bridge in Utah, in winter has the chair of archeology, and in summer leads classes through the cliff dwellings and prehistoric ruins which stud the Four Corners of the United States. [Illustration: DOORWAY OF SAN XAVIER DEL BAC, TUCSON.] The old part of the town, where lived the “first families” who settled the district when the Apaches raided, and the “bad man” frequented saloons, and made shootings and lynchings common in the sixties and seventies, has lost many of its thick-walled, verandahed houses in the face of the builder’s fervor for bungalows. The inhabitants who remember picturesque and bloody tales of the frontier days, and even participated in them, are still in hale middle age. Viewing the electric lights, the neat and charmingly designed bungalows, the tramways and excellent garages, the cretonne lined coupés, Toby and I decided we had discovered the West too late. We had before us only a denatured California, and were, indeed, feelingly reminded of that fact by the increasing numbers of Native Sons we encountered. Some of the benefits long enjoyed by the Golden State have seeped across the boundaries, and Arizona has become canny, and in the health resort zone which embraces Tucson has learned to add in the climate at the top of every bill. But Arizona’s boom is but a feeble pipe when a real Native Son begins. Some of these have, for unknown reasons, migrated to Arizona, and whenever such an individual, male or female, saw our sign, after the customary greeting, he opened fire, “On your way to California?” “No.” Following blank astonishment, “No?” “No.” Recovery, “Oh,--just come from there?” “No.” “No?” “No.” “And you’re not _going_ to California?” “No.” “Why aren’t you going?” “Because we want to do this part of the country.” “But there’s nothing here but sand. Look here, you can go to California just as well as not. You’ll get a climate _there_. You won’t have any trouble with the roads, if that is what is troubling you. The roads are wonderful,--nothing like here. You’ll find a live state across the border,--only ninety miles by Yuma. A little sand--then good roads all the way.” “Yes, but we don’t want good roads. We want to stay in Arizona.”