. Often, were it not for the sterile nature of the land and
the lack of water they would not be in the possession of the people at
all, but would long ago have been taken by the nearest _hacienda_.
Indeed, possibly they may be upon the territory claimed by such, but of
too insignificant a nature to be disturbed. Let us survey briefly these
poor dwellers on Nature's waste places. We have ridden for hours under
the sun and wind; our faces are scorched and our lips are cracked. "Is
there no _sombra_ where we can eat our lunch and take a _siesta_?" I
ask of my servant, who is acting in the double capacity of _mozo_ and
guide. He shakes his head doubtfully. "Quien sabe, senor," he replies,
but recollects a _publecito_, a little farther on, where we may obtain
shade. We ride on. Oh for a drink from some crystal stream! The water
in the bottle is lukewarm; it is not a bottle, but a gourd, such as in
Mexico are fashioned from the wild _calabazas_ for this purpose,
stoppered with maize-cob freed from the grain, and it preserves the
water fairly fresh.

The vociferous barking of a legion of dogs announces our approach, for
however poor the inhabitants of these places may be the bands of
mongrel curs which they keep seem to find means of living. We approach
the huts, our horses kicking and snorting at the attacks of the dogs. A
few of the houses are built of the usual _adobe_ bricks; the major
portion--there may be a dozen or so--are simply _jacales_, as the
Mexican wattle-hut is termed. Dirt, rags, and evil odours surround the
place, for primitive man is a filthy being, and defiles the environs of
his habitation for a considerable area around him. My visions of the
crystal stream vanish. Close at hand is a foul pond of waters collected
from the last rainstorm, wherein a lean-backed hog wallows, and we
learn that this is the villagers' water supply! Naked children of both
sexes run about under our horses' legs, and supplicate me for a
_centavito_. A horse, or at least the framework of a horse--for the
animal is attenuated beyond description--stands tethered under the
shade of a rude roof of boughs and whinnies feebly to our sturdy
mounts.

"There is no water, senor," the old crone, who has emerged from one of
the huts, replies. "God has sent us no rain for many days, but if the
senor would like some _pulque_--" I close with the suggestion and
instruct the _mozo_ to try it, to see if, in his experienced judgment,
it is good. This