evening hour, when all is cool, is the proper time to exercise it—then, after he has girded up his loins and escorted his charges to their resting-place, for the night—when he is cosily seated by the furnace side in the servant's room of the farm—his feats in bolting the tortilla cakes, and clearing the mutton platters are astounding: empty cups and pots of stew attest his energy, and his attentions to the pans of frijoles and chilé, and his exertions in swallowing draughts of pulque and atole, are most laborious.
What cares he, meanwhile, for republics or empires, pronunciamientos or rebellions? War or treason, courtly luxuries or mercantile disasters, are as nought to him. Allow him his shadowy resting-place and luxurious ease, his ragged serapé and battered sombrero, his savoury supper and straw couch o' nights, and let the world go on as it pleases! He knows no want, and he desires no change. What animal could ever wish for greater happiness?
He has a companion by his side also, nearly as gloriously idle as himself—a dog who looks very like a wolf, for his colour and outline are of that savage kind. He winks and slumbers
