we are on the river bridge, and
over it, and so on and away through an open pampa. Such, at least, I call
it. Green swelling land all around, with now and then a lake or loch
swarming with web-footed fowl, the sight of which makes Dugald's eyes
water.

We pass station after station, stopping at all. More woods, more pampa;
thriving fields and fertile lands; _estancias_, flocks of sheep, herds of
happy cattle. A busy, bustling railway station, with as much noise around
it as we find at Clapham Junction; another river--the Rio Cuarto, if my
memory does not play me false; pampas again, with hills in the distance.
Wine and water-melons at a station; more wine and more water-melons at
another.

After this I think I fall asleep, and I wonder now if the wine and the
water-melons had anything to do with that. I awake at last and rub my
eyes. Bombazo is also dozing; so is old Jenny. Old Jenny is a marvel to
sleep. Dugald is as bright as a humming bird; he says I have lost a
sight.

'What was the sight?'

'Oh, droves upon droves of real wild horses, wilder far than our ponies at
Coila.'

I close my eyes again. Dear old Coila! I wish Dugald had not mentioned the
word. It takes me back again in one moment across the vast and mighty
ocean we have crossed to our home, to father, mother, and Flora.

Before long we are safe at Villa Mercedes. Not much to see here, and the
wind blows cold from west and south.

We are not going to lodge in the town, however. We are independent of
inns, if there are any, and independent of everything. We are going under
canvas.

Already our pioneers have the camp ready in a piece of ground sheltered by
a row of lordly poplars; and to-morrow morning we start by road for the
far interior.

* * * * *

Another glorious morning! There is a freshness in the air which almost
amounts to positive cold, and reminds one of a November day in Scotland.
Bombazo calls it bitterly cold, and my aunt has distributed guanaco
ponchos to us, and has adorned herself with her own. Yes, adorned is the
right word to apply to auntie's own travelling toilet; but we brothers
think we look funny in ours, and laugh at each other in turn. Moncrieff
sticks to the Highland plaid, but the sight of a guanaco poncho to old
Jenny does, I verily believe, make her the happiest old lady in all the
Silver Land. She is mounted in the great canvas-covered waggon, which is
quite a caravan in