Lippincotts Magazine, October 1885 | Page 5

it was made of, was a
very inspiring drink. In particular I recall the pastor Patricio, a very
pretty fellow, with curly black hair and black eyes, a fine nose with a
patrician lift to the nostrils, a little black moustache bristling like a cat's
on a smiling lip, a red handkerchief about his neck: he was very voluble
of soft words, and made the waste blossom with his distinguished
manner. A dozen of these camps were to be discovered about the range,
and the brush fences and unused corrals of many more, which had been
used and would be used again as the sheep were moved from
grazing-ground to grazing-ground and portions of the range temporarily
exhausted.
From his camp the herder goes forth at daybreak with his flock of
fourteen hundred ewes and lambs or two thousand wethers, grazing
slowly toward the creek or neighboring water-hole where at noon he
lies up in the shade; and to it he slowly returns in the cool of the
afternoon, the flock moving in loose order among the mesquites, taking
a nip here, a nip there, but ever hanging together and dependent, the
most gregarious of animals. In their unity of action, in their
interdependence and solidarity, the timid sheep are capable of a
momentary suggestion of awe. About weaning-time a couple of large
flocks got temporarily together, and one could see driven by the herder
a compact mass of four thousand advancing over the prairie with a
quick step, "a unit in aggregate, a simple in composite," their
impassible countenances gazing fixedly forward, resembling, it seemed
to me, a brigade going into action. For most of the year it is thought by
no means advisable to fold the sheep in the corral at night, so they sleep
at large near it. Especially on moonlight nights they are apt to be
uneasy and to move from their bed-ground short distances, when the
herder quits his tent, and, rolling a cigarette, follows his fanciful flock

about the blanched and wistful prairie till they subside; then, throwing
his cloak over his shoulder with the swing of an hidalgo, he falls asleep
beside them.
The herder's incidents are the fortnightly arrival of his rations and the
weekly or possibly more frequent visit of the superintendent to count
and examine his flock and inquire after the general condition of things.
The Mexican herder invariably denies all knowledge of English and
compels one to meet him on his own ground, which, it is needless to
say, is a far cry from Castile; and in encounters between Juan and the
superintendent the fine feathers of syntax are apt to fly in a way I shall
not attempt to reproduce.
"Good-afternoon, Juan," says the superintendent.
"Good-afternoon, senor."
"How's the flock, Juan?"
"Oh, pretty well, senor."
"No better than pretty?"
"No, senor."
"How's that?"
And then Juan goes on to explain that the recent unusually wet weather
has made many lame, etc., etc., to which the superintendent listens with
a grave countenance. Perhaps some unfortunate ewe has been bitten by
a "cat," or in some way received a wound in which the fly has
deposited its malignant egg: they lay her on her side and doctor her in
company. Finally, the superintendent gives the herder some tobacco,
some cigarette-papers, and a couple of yards of yellow fuse, and,
mounting his horse, nods farewell, and Juan touches his hat, smiles,
and says, "Adios."
In the ordinary course of events this is his weekly allowance of human
intercourse. It was the common opinion that none but Juan and his
brethren could stand this sort of thing; but what there is in the Mexican
character that adapts him to it only becomes a mystery on acquaintance
therewith. His most obvious and, one inclines to think, his highest and
most estimable quality is his sociability. He has a sense of the
agreeableness of life, with a very considerable feeling for manners.
This feeling makes it a pleasure for him to meet you; it causes him to
put himself into the most commonplace conversation, the simplest
greeting, and make it, in his small way, a matter of art. It makes it a

pleasure for him to call upon a friend beneath the shade of some
live-oak or in a dugout or _jacal_, carrying some white sugar for his
wife or some candy for his little ones. Our instinctive disposition to
infer deplorable lacunae in the region of morals from the possession of
a talent for manners is in the case of the poor Mexican too thoroughly
justified. For him there is no such region; it is an undiscovered country.
He is the lightest of light-weights. When his heart is warmest he is
tossing a silver dollar in the air and thinking; of monte. Cimental
herded industriously