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[Illustration:  Stacking Alfalfa.]

[Illustration:  Alfalfa Elevator at Work.]

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“THE TACURU.”

No. 2.

Sunday, March 27th, 1910.

The party did not sit up late last night; they had a short talk on the verandah for the sake of digestion, and then all retired to bed, but alas! not to rest.  Foolishly they had imagined that mosquitoes were things of the past, and no nets were put up, with the result that one and all soon learnt that for fresh blood and newcomers there was a plethora of these little demons waiting with their irritating song, sting, and bite:  from some of the party we learn complaints of other songs, more human, and more nasal, and it is believed that it was Our Guest who was heard at midnight to be murmuring the chorus of a favourite song, viz., “Hush, boys!  No noise!  Silence ebryting!  Listen, and you’ll hear de little angels sing.”  At least it says “angels” in the song, but the word Our Guest used sounded like “demons,” but probably he was dreaming of the “ping” of bullets and the roar of battle as the snores resounded through the room, or, one might almost say, through the house.  Very early this morning there were cries for The Chaperon:  he was wanted to tell the time; he was wanted to bring water for ablutions; he was wanted to tell us when breakfast would be ready; he was wanted to give advice or remedies for mosquito bites, and, in general, for a short space of time, he justified his existence.  When at last the members of the party had collected themselves from all sorts of odd corners, coffee (with the addition of bacon and eggs, and several other things) was served, and the interval, before the order “All aboard” was issued, was chiefly occupied in observing and discussing the effects of our first night’s experience of bichos.  Our Guest, after due deliberation, laid down some useful rules for future guidance, the chief being, “Never be without a Mosquitero”:  his face and head were literally enlarged on this point, and he assured us that a mosquito’s proboscis is an impressive point.  Apparently The Kid, too, would have liked to give her views on mosquitoes and their ways, but her uninteresting remarks were cut short by The Wild Man’s order of “kennel up,” and, given a bottle of cana, she seemed quite happy.  Our Guest seemed to have an impression, also, that someone had blundered.  He knew someone had slumbered (some had not), and plaintively he begged that he might be allowed in future to sleep at one estancia further ahead of the rest of the party.

Most of the nomads had had some slapping acquaintance with mosquitoes during the night, and the showing of bites, swellings, lumps, etc., only ended when The Jehu ordered the bugle to be sounded for an onward move.  We were well under way before half the lamentations had been entered in the station complaint book.