At Las Uvas every house is a piece of earth—­thick walled, whitewashed adobe that keeps the even temperature of a cave; every man is an accomplished horseman and consequently bow-legged; every family keeps dogs, flea-bitten mongrels that loll on the earthen floors.  They speak a purer Castilian than obtains in like villages of Mexico, and the way they count relationship everybody is more or less akin.  There is not much villainy among them.  What incentive to thieving or killing can there be when there is little wealth and that to be had for the borrowing!  If they love too hotly, as we say “take their meat before grace,” so do their betters.  Eh, what! shall a man be a saint before he is dead?  And besides, Holy Church takes it out of you one way or another before all is done.  Come away, you who are obsessed with your own importance in the scheme of things, and have got nothing you did not sweat for, come away by the brown valleys and full-bosomed hills to the even-breathing days, to the kindliness, earthiness, ease of El Pueblo de Las Uvas.