Dona Encarnacion, was the portrait of the Minister of War, a face
which had no attraction for us children, as it was not coloured like
that of the Dictator, nor had any romance or mystery in it like that
of his dead wife; yet it served to bring all these pictured people
into our actual world--to make us realize that they were the
counterfeit presentments of real men and women. For it happened that
this same Minister of War was in a way a neighbour of ours, as he
owned an estancia, which he sometimes visited, about three leagues
from us, on that part of the plain to the east of our place which I
have described in a former chapter as being covered with a dense
growth of the bluish-grey wild artichoke, the _cardo de Castilla_, as
it is called in the vernacular. Like most of the estancia houses of
that day it was a long low building of brick with thatched roof,
surrounded by an enclosed _quinta_, or plantation, with rows of
century-old Lombardy poplars conspicuous at a great distance, and many
old acacia, peach, quince, and cherry trees. It was a cattle and
horse-breeding establishment, but the beasts were of less account to
the owner than his peacocks, a fowl for which he had so great a
predilection that he could not have too many of them; he was always
buying more peacocks to send out to the estate, and they multiplied
until the whole place swarmed with them. And he wanted them all for
himself, so that it was forbidden to sell or give even an egg away.
The place was in the charge of a major-domo, a good-natured fellow,
and when he discovered that we liked peacocks' feathers for decorative
purposes in the house, he made it a custom to send us each year at the
moulting-time large bundles, whole armfuls, of feathers.

Another curious thing in the estancia was a large room set apart for
the display of trophies sent from Buenos Ayres by the Minister's
eldest son. I have already given an account of a favourite pastime of