of his prize cattle. The German was a pedigreed fellow, and thenceforth
he called him by that nickname.

Seated on summer nights under the awning, he surveyed his family around
him with a sort of patriarchal ecstasy. In the evening hush could be
heard the buzzing of insects and the croaking of the frogs. From the
distant ranches floated the songs of the peons as they prepared their
suppers. It was harvest time, and great bands of immigrants were
encamped in the fields for the extra work.

Madariaga had known many of the hard old days of wars and violence. Upon
his arrival in South America, he had witnessed the last years of the
tyranny of Rosas. He loved to enumerate the different provincial and
national revolutions in which he had taken part. But all this had
disappeared and would never return. These were the times of peace, work
and abundance.

"Just think of it, Frenchy," he said, driving away the mosquitoes with
the puffs of his cigar. "I am Spanish, you French, Karl German, my
daughters Argentinians, the cook Russian, his assistant Greek, the
stable boy English, the kitchen servants Chinas (natives), Galicians or
Italians, and among the peons there are many castes and laws. . . . And
yet we all live in peace. In Europe, we would have probably been in a
grand fight by this time, but here we are all friends."

He took much pleasure in listening to the music of the laborers--laments
from Italian songs to the accompaniment of the accordion, Spanish
guitars and Creole choruses, wild voices chanting of love and death.

"This is a regular Noah's ark," exulted the vainglorious patriarch.