the saddle—bow the ranchero alights, and we find him to be a short, wiry, muscular person, with a bronzed and rather saturnine countenance but friendly and respectful manners. He wears tough leggings, leather trousers, a small rectangular shawl (serape) that falls over his back and breast, allowing his head to protrude through a hole in the middle, and a wide sombrero, while at the saddlebow hang the inevitable lasso and a bag of corn and jerked beef, one meal a day from which is all he requires. Apparently he does not feel quite at home on the ground, and that is natural, for he spends about half of his waking hours in the saddle. Herdsman, farmer or brigand, according to circumstances, he is also cavalryman at need; and a corps of such fellows, if properly trained and led, would make the best light horse in the world, perhaps, His chief interests in life, however, are gambling and cock-fighting, and he is quite capable of losing all his worldly goods, his wife and even his pony at the national game of monte, and then of lighting a cigarette and sauntering off without a sign of regret.[1]
Now we approach what may be called a village, but one extremely different from a village in the United States The great things are a handsome grove and in the midst of it one old church of gray stone, full of saints and relics and ancient plate, with a ragged, stupid Indian crouching on the floor. Near by are two or three ranchero cottages with a group of Indian huts in the distance, and yonder stands a large, rambling edifice of stone with a mighty door and heavily barred windows. From the ends of the building run high walls inclosing several acres, and within the protected space may be seen a number of substantial dwellings and what appear to be storehouses and stables, while far away over hill and plain spreads the hacienda, an estate as large as a county. Finally, on a gentle slope not far distant we observe a monastery with a rich garden behind it, and a fat, contented prior riding sleepily up to its arched gateway through a dozen or two of kneeling aborigines.[2]
Toward evening we reach the state capital, and as we cross a bridge on the outskirts, we see a crowd of people bathing. Both sexes are splashing and swimming, all as happy as ducks and all entirely nude. Even the presence of strangers does not embarrass the young women, some of whom are decidedly good—looking; and they even try to draw our attention by
