Strange to relate, this
phenomenon turned out to be millions of white butterflies of large
size. Some of these, when measured, I found to be four and five
inches across the wings. Darwin relates his having, in 1832, seen the
same sight, when his men exclaimed that it was "snowing butterflies."
The inhabitants of these trackless wilds are very, very few, but in
all directions I saw numbers of ostriches, which run at the least
sign of man, their enemy. The fastest horse could not outstrip this
bird as with wings outstretched he speeds before the hunter. As Job,
perhaps the oldest historian of the world, truly says: "What time she
lifteth herself up on high, she scorneth the horse and his rider."
The male bird joins his spouse in hatching the eggs, sitting on them
perhaps longer turns than the female, but the weather is so hot that
little brooding is required. I have had them on the shelf of my
cupboard for a week, when the little ones have forced their way out
Forty days is the time of incubation, so, naturally, those must have
been already sat on for thirty-three days. With open wings these
giant birds often manage to cover from twenty-five to forty-five
eggs, although, I think, they seldom bring out more than twenty. The
rest they roll out of the nest, where, soon rotting, they breed
innumerable insects, and provide tender food for the coming young.
The latter, on arrival, are always reared by the male ostrich, who,
not being a model husband, ignominiously drives away the partner of
his joys. It might seem that he has some reason for doing this, for
the old historian before referred to says: "She is hardened against
her young ones as though they were not hers."
As the longest road leads somewhere, the glare of the whitewashed
church at last meets your longing gaze on the far horizon. The
village churches are always whitewashed, and an old man is frequently
employed to strike the hours on the tower bell by guess.
I was much struck by the sameness of the many different interior
towns and villages I visited. Each wore the same aspect of indolent
repose, and each was built in exact imitation of the other. Each town
possesses its plaza, where palms and other semi-tropical plants wave
their leaves and send out their perfume.
From the principal city to the meanest village, the streets all bear
the same names. In every town you may find a Holy Faith street, a
St. John street and a Holy Ghost street, and these streets are
shaded by orange, lemon, pomegranate, fig and other trees, the fruit
of which is free to all who choose to gather. All streets are in all
parts in a most disgraceful condition, and at night beneath the heavy
foliage of the trees Egyptian darkness reigns. Except in daylight, it
is difficult to walk those wretched roads, where a goat often finds
progress a difficulty. Rotten fruit, branches of trees, ashes, etc.,
all go on the streets. A hole is often bridged over by a putrefying
animal, over which run half-naked urchins, pelting each other with
oranges or lemons - common as stones. When the highways are left in
such a state, is it to be wondered at that, while standing on my own
door-step, I have been able to count eleven houses where smallpox was
doing its deadly work, all within a radius of one hundred yards?
Even in the city of La Plata, the second of importance in Argentina,
I once had the misfortune to fall into an open drain while passing
down one of the principal streets. The night was intensely dark, and
yet there was no light left there to warn either pedestrian or
vehicle-driver, and this sewer was seven feet deep.
Simple rusticity and ignorance are the chief characteristics of the
country people. They used to follow and stare at me as though I were
a visitor from Mars or some other planet. When I spoke to them in
their language they were delighted, and respectfully hung on my words
with bared heads. When, however, I told them of electric cars and
underground railways, they turned away in incredulity, thinking that
such marvels as these could not possibly be.
Old World towns they seem to be. The houses are built of sun-baked
mud bricks, kneaded by mares that splash and trample through the oozy
substance for hours to mix it well. The poorer people build ranches
of long, slender canes or Indian cornstalks tied together by grass
and coated with mud. These are all erected around and about the most
imposing edifice in the place - the whitewashed adobe church.
All houses are hollow squares. The patio, with its well, is inside
this enclosure. Each house is lime-washed in various colors, and all
are flat-roofed and provided with grated windows, giving them a
prison-like appearance. The window-panes are sometimes made of mica.
Over the front doors of some of the better houses are pictures of the
Virgin. The nurse's house is designated by having over the doorway a
signboard, on which is painted a full-blooming rose, out of the
petals of which is peeping a little babe.
If you wish to enter a house, you do not knock at the door (an act
that would be considered great rudeness), but clap your hands, and
you are most courteously invited to enter. The good woman at once
sets to work to serve you with mate, and quickly rolls a cigar,
which she hands to you from her mouth, where she has already lighted
it by a live ember of charcoal taken from the fire with a spoon.
Matches can be bought, but they cost about ten cents a hundred.
