"My lands!" exclaimed the traveller joyfully, gazing at the melancholy
fields illumined by the early morning light. "For the first time, I see
the patrimony which I inherited from my mother. The poor woman used to
praise this country so extravagantly, and tell me so many marvellous
things about it when I was a child, that I thought that to be here was
to be in heaven. Fruits, flowers, game, large and small; mountains,
lakes, rivers, romantic streams, pastoral hills, all were to be found
in the Poplars of Bustamante; in this favored land, the best and most
beautiful on the earth. But what is to be said? The people of this place
live in their imaginations. If I had been brought here in my youth, when
I shared the ideas and the enthusiasm of my dear mother, I suppose that
I, too, would have been enchanted with these bare hills, these arid or
marshy plains, these dilapidated farmhouses, these rickety norias,
whose buckets drip water enough to sprinkle half a dozen cabbages, this
wretched and barren desolation that surrounds me."

"It is the best land in the country," said Senor Licurgo; "and for the
chick-pea, there is no other like it."

"I am delighted to hear it, for since they came into my possession these
famous lands have never brought me a penny."

The wise legislator of Sparta scratched his ear and gave a sigh.

"But I have been told," continued the young man, "that some of the
neighboring proprietors have put their ploughs in these estates of mine,
and that, little by little, they are filching them from me. Here
there are neither landmarks nor boundaries, nor real ownership, Senor
Licurgo."