We spent the evening, a good part of the night, and the next day until afternoon, in determining our position and altitude, and in various explorations in both directions from the summit.  We found that we were distant seventy-eight miles in a right line from La Union, and (barometrically) 2958 feet above mean-tide in the Pacific.  We afterwards ascertained that the hut in which we passed the night is called Rancho Chiquito, and that name was accordingly given to this summit, and to the Pass, as distinguished from another break through the mountains, to the westward, which we subsequently discovered and designated as the Pass of Guajoca.

After Rancho Chiquito, the first town which is reached in the plain of Comayagua, entering it from this direction, is Lamani,—­a small village, it is true, but delightfully situated in an open meadow, relieved only by fruit-trees and the stems of the nopal or palmated cactus, which here grows to a gigantic size, frequently reaching the height of twenty or thirty feet.  The cabildo was in a state of extreme dilapidation, and we called on the first alcalde for better accommodations.  He took us to the house of the padre, who was away from home, and installed us there.  It was the best house in the place, whitewashed, and painted with figures of trees, men, animals, and birds, all in red ochre, and in a style of art truly archaic.  The padre’s two servants, an old woman and her boy, were the sole occupants of the establishment, and did not appear at all delighted to see us.  According to their account, there was nothing in the house to eat; they had no tortillas, no eggs, no chickens, "absolutamente nada" (absolutely nothing).  All this was affirmed with the greatest gravity, while a dozen fat fowls were distinctly visible through the open doorway, perched, for the night, among the bare limbs of the jocote trees in the court-yard.  I pointed them out to the old woman, and, producing a handful of silver, told her that we were willing to pay for such as we required.

"Pero no puedo venderles.” (But I can’t sell them.)

“Why?”

"No puedo"

Dolores meantime took a stick, knocked three of the finest from their perches, and quietly wrung their necks.  I expected to see the old dame swoon away, or at least go off in a paroxysm of tears; but, instead of committing any such civilized folly, she silently took up her slaughtered innocents, dressed and cooked them, and thanked me profoundly for the medio each, which I handed her next morning.  The lesson was not lost on us, in our subsequent travels; for we found it almost universal, that the lower classes are utterly indisposed to sell their domestic commodities.  Their services may be purchased; but their chickens are above price.  When, however, you have helped yourself, you are astonished to find how ridiculously small a sum will heal the wound you have made and atone for the loss you have inflicted.