Through Five Republics on Horseback | Page 8

his horse,
but not until his hands have been well wiped on its tail, which almost

touches the ground. The other cans of the lechero contain a mixture
known to him alone. I never analyzed it, but have remarked a chalky
substance in the bottom of my glass. He does not profess to sell pure
milk; that you can buy, but, of course, at a higher price, from the pure
milk seller. In the cool of the afternoon he will bring round his cows,
with bells on their necks and calves dragging behind. The calves are
tied to the mothers' tails, and wear a muzzle. At a _sh-h_ from the
sidewalk he stops them, and, stooping down, fills your pitcher
according to your money. The cows, through being born and bred to a
life in the streets, are generally miserable-looking beasts. Strange to
add, the one milkman shoes his cows and the other leaves his horse
unshod. It is not customary in this country for man's noble friend to
wear more than his own natural hoof. A visit to the blacksmith is
entertaining. The smith, by means of a short lasso, deftly trips up the
animal, and, with its legs securely lashed, the cow must lie on its back
while he shoes its upturned hoofs.
Many and varied are the scenes. One is struck by the number of horses,
seven and eight often being yoked to one cart, which even then they
sometimes find difficult to draw. Some of the streets are very bad,
worse than our country lanes, and filled with deep ruts and drains, into
which the horses often fall. There the driver will sometimes cruelly
leave them, when, after his arm aches in using the whip, he finds the
animal cannot rise. For the veriest trifle I have known men to smash the
poor dumb brute's eyes out with the stock of the whip, and I have been
very near the Police Station more than once when my righteous blood
compelled me to interfere. Where, oh, where is the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals? Surely no suffering creatures under
the sun cry out louder for mercy than those in Argentina?
As I have said, horses are left to die in the public streets. It has been my
painful duty to pass moaning creatures lying helplessly in the road,
with broken limbs, under a burning sun, suffering hunger and thirst, for
three consecutive days, before kind death, the sufferer's friend, released
them. Looking on such sights, seeing every street urchin with coarse
laugh and brutal jest jump on such an animal's quivering body, stuff its
parched mouth with mud, or poke sticks into its staring eyes, I have
cried aloud at the injustice. The policeman and the passers-by have
only laughed at me for my pains.

In my experiences in South America I found cruelty to be a marked
feature of the people. If the father thrusts his dagger into his enemy,
and the mother, in her fits of rage, sticks her hairpin into her maid's
body, can it be wondered at if the children inherit cruel natures? How
often have I seen a poor horse fall between the shafts of some loaded
cart of bricks or sand! Never once have I seen his harness undone and
willing hands help him up, as in other civilized lands. No, the lashing
of the cruel whip or the knife's point is his only help. If, as some
religious writers have said, the horse will be a sharer of Paradise along
with man, his master, then those from Buenos Ayres will feed in stalls
of silver and have their wounds healed by the clover of eternal kindness.
"God is Love."
I have said the streets are full of holes. In justice to the authorities I
must mention the fact that sometimes, especially at the crossings, these
are filled up. To carry truthfulness still further, however, I must state
that more than once I have known them bridged over with the
putrefying remains of a horse in the last stages of decomposition. I
have seen delicate ladies, attired in Parisian furbelows, lift their dainty
skirts, attempt the crossing--and sink in a mass of corruption, full of
maggots.
In my description of Buenos Ayres I must not omit to mention the large
square, black, open hearses so often seen rapidly drawn through the
streets, the driver seeming to travel as quickly as he can. In the centre
of the coach is the coffin, made of white wood and covered with black
material, fastened on with brass nails. Around this gruesome object sit
the relatives and friends of the departed one on their journey to the
_chacarita_, or cemetery, some six miles out from the centre of the city.
Cemeteries in Spanish America