arrived about mid-day they would regale him with scraps of jerked beef, a cake of unleavened bread cooked in the skillet, and coffee which, considering what it was made of, was a very inspiring drink.  In particular I recall the pastor Patricio, a very pretty fellow, with curly black hair and black eyes, a fine nose with a patrician lift to the nostrils, a little black moustache bristling like a cat’s on a smiling lip, a red handkerchief about his neck:  he was very voluble of soft words, and made the waste blossom with his distinguished manner.  A dozen of these camps were to be discovered about the range, and the brush fences and unused corrals of many more, which had been used and would be used again as the sheep were moved from grazing-ground to grazing-ground and portions of the range temporarily exhausted.

From his camp the herder goes forth at daybreak with his flock of fourteen hundred ewes and lambs or two thousand wethers, grazing slowly toward the creek or neighboring water-hole where at noon he lies up in the shade; and to it he slowly returns in the cool of the afternoon, the flock moving in loose order among the mesquites, taking a nip here, a nip there, but ever hanging together and dependent, the most gregarious of animals.  In their unity of action, in their interdependence and solidarity, the timid sheep are capable of a momentary suggestion of awe.  About weaning-time a couple of large flocks got temporarily together, and one could see driven by the herder a compact mass of four thousand advancing over the prairie with a quick step, “a unit in aggregate, a simple in composite,” their impassible countenances gazing fixedly forward, resembling, it seemed to me, a brigade going into action.  For most of the year it is thought by no means advisable to fold the sheep in the corral at night, so they sleep at large near it.  Especially on moonlight nights they are apt to be uneasy and to move from their bed-ground short distances, when the herder quits his tent, and, rolling a cigarette, follows his fanciful flock about the blanched and wistful prairie till they subside; then, throwing his cloak over his shoulder with the swing of an hidalgo, he falls asleep beside them.

The herder’s incidents are the fortnightly arrival of his rations and the weekly or possibly more frequent visit of the superintendent to count and examine his flock and inquire after the general condition of things.  The Mexican herder invariably denies all knowledge of English and compels one to meet him on his own ground, which, it is needless to say, is a far cry from Castile; and in encounters between Juan and the superintendent the fine feathers of syntax are apt to fly in a way I shall not attempt to reproduce.

“Good-afternoon, Juan,” says the superintendent.

“Good-afternoon, senor.”

“How’s the flock, Juan?”

“Oh, pretty well, senor.”

“No better than pretty?”

“No, senor.”