from their bed-ground short distances, when the herder quits his tent,
and, rolling a cigarette, follows his fanciful flock about the blanched
and wistful prairie till they subside; then, throwing his cloak over his
shoulder with the swing of an hidalgo, he falls asleep beside them.

The herder's incidents are the fortnightly arrival of his rations and
the weekly or possibly more frequent visit of the superintendent to
count and examine his flock and inquire after the general condition of
things. The Mexican herder invariably denies all knowledge of English
and compels one to meet him on his own ground, which, it is needless to
say, is a far cry from Castile; and in encounters between Juan and the
superintendent the fine feathers of syntax are apt to fly in a way I
shall not attempt to reproduce.

"Good-afternoon, Juan," says the superintendent.

"Good-afternoon, señor."

"How's the flock, Juan?"

"Oh, pretty well, señor."

"No better than pretty?"

"No, señor."

"How's that?"

And then Juan goes on to explain that the recent unusually wet weather
has made many lame, etc., etc., to which the superintendent listens with