ome (such were the amenities of shopping on the ranch),
they would lounge about, ever smiling and chattering in soft voices,
finally to say '_uenos dias_ with two bits' worth of bacon, or
corn-meal, or pink candy for the _chiquitas_. Here, too, would come
Tomasa, and, with even more than usual feminine zeal in matters of
dress, at once try on the ready-made calico gown she purchased, while
the store-keeper smoked his pipe and stroked his beard.

Excepting the cow-boys, the people composing the clientage of the store
were for the most part resident in one of two farm-settlements located
on the creek, about ten miles apart, one exclusively Mexican, the other
almost entirely "white." Besides these, the families of many of the
Mexican hands lived close by. These last were constantly assisting
conversation at the cottages with such incidents as the following:

The cook--a tall, gaunt negro of a mediaevally "intense" nature--came
in with an excited manner, followed by Madame Alguin, very much
troubled, wringing her hands, and dissolved in tears.

"Panchot's little boy," said the cook, "is killed."

We were naturally aghast. Little Panchot had been _colero_ at the recent
shearing.

"Is he dead?" we queried hoarsely.

"He was dead," replied the cook, with seriousness: "he is not dead now."

With this light and delicate touch the cook swept the gamut of our
emotions from awe at little Panchot's sudden taking off to pleasure at
his speedy resurrection. We repaired at once to Madame Alguin's
residence to view the subject of this miracle: lest the miracle should
not be so complete as one might wish, we carried with us a little
hartshorn and Pond's extract. Madame Alguin's villa was a fine
wide-spreading live-oak, with a tent as a sort of annex, about two
minutes from the ranch. On our arrival we found four Mexican women,
seven children, one man, three dogs, four goats, and several roosters,
gathered round the form of little Panchot stretched beneath the
live-oak. A fire smouldered a little way off, and a cradle hung from the
branch of the fatherly tree. Little Panchot had a nasty cut about an
inch long through his cheek. He had been herding his goats on the bank
of the creek when he was knocked over by a stone from the other side. He
swooned,--then he was dead; he came to,--and, _presto_, he was alive
again. He was soon running about with his wonted friskiness, and making
himself useful in chasing wild tennis-balls. This lit