The peasant, after a pause, during which his subtle intellect seemed to
be occupied in profound disquisitions, expressed himself as follows:

"Uncle Paso Largo, whom, for his great foresight, we call the
Philosopher, set his plough in the Poplars, above the hermitage, and bit
by bit, he has gobbled up six fanegas."

"What an incomparable school!" exclaimed the young man, smiling. "I
wager that he has not been the only--philosopher?"

"It is a true saying that one should talk only about what one knows, and
that if there is food in the dove-cote, doves won't be wanting. But you,
Senor Don Jose, can apply to your own cause the saying that the eye of
the master fattens the ox, and now that you are here, try and recover
your property."

"Perhaps that would not be so easy, Senor Licurgo," returned the young
man, just as they were entering a path bordered on either side by
wheat-fields, whose luxuriance and early ripeness gladdened the eye.
"This field appears to be better cultivated. I see that all is not
dreariness and misery in the Poplars."

The peasant assumed a melancholy look, and, affecting something of
disdain for the fields that had been praised by the traveller, said in
the humblest of tones:

"Senor, this is mine."

"I beg your pardon," replied the gentleman quickly; "now I was going to