It had taken only fifteen years, but fifteen years of hard work, to create this paradise.  And only the summer before, all had been well-nigh swept away again.  During the great drought the fire had raged about the woods.  Estate after estate around had been reduced to ashes.  And one day our host’s turn came.  The fire burst out of the woods at three different points.  All worked with a will to stop it by cutting traces.  But the wind was wild; burning masses from the tree-tops were hurled far among the canes, and all was lost.  The canes burnt like shavings, exploding with a perpetual crackle at each joint.  In a few hours the whole estate—­works, coolie barracks, negro huts—­was black ash; and the house only, by extreme exertion, saved.  But the ground had scarcely cooled when replanting and rebuilding commenced; and now the canes were from ten to twelve feet high, the works nearly ready for the coming crop-time, and no sign of the fire was left, save a few leafless trees, which we found, on riding up to them, to be charred at the base.

And yet men say that the Englishman loses his energy in a tropic climate.

We had a charming Sunday there, amid charming society, down even to the dogs and cats; and not the least charming object among many was little Franky, the Coolie butler’s child, who ran in and out with the dogs, gay in his little cotton shirt, and melon-shaped cap, and silver bracelets, and climbed on the Squire’s knee, and nestled in his bosom, and played with his seals; and looked up trustingly into our faces with great soft eyes, like a little brown guazu-pita fawn out of the forest.  A happy child, and in a happy place.

Then to church at Savanna Grande, riding of course; for the mud was abysmal, and it was often safer to ride in the ditch than on the road.  The village, with a tramway through it, stood high and healthy.  The best houses were those of the Chinese.  The poorer Chinese find peddling employments and trade about the villages, rather than hard work on the estates; while they cultivate on ridges, with minute care, their favourite sweet potato.  Round San Fernando, a Chinese will rent from a sugar-planter a bit of land which seems hopelessly infested with weeds, even of the worst of all sorts—­the creeping Para grass {186}—­which was introduced a generation since, with some trouble, as food for cattle, and was supposed at first to be so great a boon that the gentleman who brought it in received public thanks and a valuable testimonial.  The Chinaman will take the land for a single year, at a rent, I believe, as high as a pound an acre, grow on it his sweet potato crop, and return it to the owner, cleared, for the time being, of every weed.  The richer shopkeepers have each a store:  but they disdain to live at it.  Near by each you see a comfortable low house, with verandahs, green jalousies, and often pretty flowers in pots; and catch glimpses inside of papered walls, prints, and smart moderator-lamps, which seem to be fashionable among the Celestials.  But for one fashion of theirs, I confess, I was not prepared.