No sooner had our launch reached the landing place, than we bounded ashore, eager for information about our mules and their drivers. We asked the sable matron who, with her equally sable daughters, waited at the brink to greet us, if the mules had come. She replied laconically, “No, SeÑor.” “Have you heard anything about them?” “No, SeÑor.” “Is there anyone here,” and I glanced at the swarthy youth hard by, “that would be willing, if well rewarded, to go forward and hasten the arrival of men and mules?” “No, SeÑor.”

What was to be done? We could not continue our journey alone and afoot, even if we were disposed to leave our baggage behind us. And it soon became evident that it would not be safe to remain long at BarrigÓn. There was but one rude hut there, and that was surrounded by mud and pools of water covered by “Spawn, weeds and filth and leprous-scum”—certainly not a very inviting place to abide any length of time.

Besides, the family had nothing to eat, at least they said they had not, except a few platanos, and these they required for their own use. We had almost exhausted the supply we had brought from Trinidad, and the little that was still left, we intended for our three-days trip to Villavicencio. We were not sure that we could get anything on the way, and we did not wish to run any risk of being without food where it might be most needed.

Something had to be done, and that quickly, if we did not wish to expose ourselves to the pangs of hunger and the danger of fever in that filthy, miasmatic hole. In the dry season, we might return to Cabuyaro, where we could secure horses or mules, and go thence to our next objective point, Villavicencio. During the rainy season, however, this was impossible. We had been told the night before, that several of the caÑos and rivers between Cabuyaro and Villavicencio were quite impassable, as there were neither bridges nor ferries, and that the currents were so swift that it was quite out of the question for man or beast to cross them by swimming.

We were certainly in a quandary, if not in a very serious predicament. It was useless to go backwards, unless we wished to return to OrocuÉ, and thence to Trinidad. Even if we returned to OrocuÉ, we could not get a steamer down the river for several months, and to make the long trip to Ciudad Bolivar in a bongo was not to be thought of. We were confronted by the first really grave difficulty of our journey, and when we considered all the circumstances, it was enough to depress the stoutest heart.

“But why had not our men and mules arrived,” we asked ourselves time and again? Our telegram ordering them had been received and satisfactorily answered. Just before leaving OrocuÉ we had sent a second telegram advising our vaqueano—guide—when he should meet us but we had not awaited a reply, taking it for granted that there would be no hitch in our plans. It now occurred that we had acted unwisely in not waiting for a response to our second telegram, so as to be sure that it had been received and was properly understood.

The telegraph line to OrocuÉ had only recently been put up—just a few weeks before our arrival there—and had never been in satisfactory working order. In fact, owing to a break in the wire, which lasted a fortnight, we had not been able to get into communication with Villavicencio—the place whence our mules were to come—until a few days before we started for BarrigÓn. Might there not have been another interruption in the line after we sent our second message? And did this message ever reach its destination? It is true that a week had elapsed since our departure from OrocuÉ, and, if the line had been severed, it might have been repaired.

But then again this was far from certain. The wire passed through dense and interminable forests—where there were no roads of any kind—and it might require several days to reach the break after it was located. And then after our vaqueano got our telegram it would require three days for him to go from Villavicencio to BarrigÓn, supposing that he had the mules and saddles in readiness. If they were not ready there would be another delay in starting. Altogether the outlook was far from reassuring. Our animals and men might arrive at any hour, and then again we might be obliged to wait for them for weeks.

While occupied in these far from comforting reflections, we remembered that the mail from BogotÁ to OrocuÉ was due. The men who would bring it would also bring a certain amount of freight for various points on the Meta. Here, then, was a ray of hope. If our own men and animals should fail us, we might be able to prevail on the mail carriers to give us the necessary means of transportation for ourselves and baggage. This consideration tended to relieve somewhat the suspense which was the most unpleasant feature of our hapless situation. We resolved, accordingly, to take a more optimistic view of things, and to trust to our star which, so far, had ever been in the ascendant.

What had greatly contributed to the gloominess of the outlook on our arrival at BarrigÓn was the thought that we should be obliged to leave our launch—where we were so comfortable—for the dismal, steaming pest-hole on the river’s bank. We did not for a moment think of asking for shelter in the filthy shack occupied by the negro family. That would be tantamount to courting paludismo—malarial fever—in its worst form. Fortunately, we had a good tent with us, and in this we could be shielded from sun and rain, and, at the same time, escape some of the unsanitary features that rendered this spot so forbidding and dangerous. It was really the first place that we had yet visited from which we instinctively shrank and from which we wished to depart at the earliest possible moment.

While thus preoccupied and devising ways and means for rendering our enforced detention at this spot as endurable as circumstances would permit, our captain, God bless him! observing our distress, came to us, and with a kindness and courtesy we can never forget, said, “No se preocupen, SeÑores, la lancha quedarÁ aquÍ hasta que vengan las bestias.” Do not worry, gentlemen, the launch will remain here until the arrival of your animals.

What a relief this kind and considerate act was—performed when and where it counted for so much to us—only those can realize who have been placed in similar situations. Everything was now as well provided for as might be, except food. Where that was to come from was a mystery, as we did not wish to draw on the very limited supply we had brought with us.

Our first meal consisted of plÁtanos—some boiled and some fried—with a cup of black coffee. I had never eaten a dozen bananas in any form before coming to South America, but I gradually became accustomed to them, although I never relished them. Here, however, there was nothing else in sight, except two or three ducks that were quacking about the green, miasmatic pools that surrounded the negro shanty. We endeavored to purchase these, but, although we offered the old dame several times what they were worth, she would not part with them. No African ever held on more tenaciously to his fetish or rabbit-foot than did this swart Ethiopian hag of Puerto Nuevo to her prized webfeet.

For our dinner we fared better. Fortunately and quite unexpectedly, someone succeeded in landing a large and delicious fish, which was quite sufficient to furnish a meal for ourselves and crew. A new source of food-supply was now indicated, but try as we would, it was impossible to catch another fish—large or small. The impetuous current of the muddy river was decidedly adverse to our rising piscatorial hopes. But we determined not to worry on account of our lack of success as anglers. “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.” Providence, we were sure, would provide for the morrow. Probably our men and mules would arrive. If not, the mail carriers would undoubtedly come, and then no Deus ex machina would be necessary to extricate us from our embarrassing situation.

A dreary day passed and a more dreary night. What with the suspense and the lack of proper food, and the confinement to a disagreeable spot in the impenetrable forest, our position was such as not to encourage slumber by night or rapturous admiration of tropical flora during the day. Nevertheless, we still instinctively felt that relief would not be long in coming.

The second morning we had our usual desayuno of black coffee and plÁtanos. And to our amazement, there was added to this simple fare a fine roast chicken. Where did it come from? We had seen no chickens anywhere about the premises, and could not have been more surprised if it had dropped from the blue sky. I asked the captain, and he quietly replied with a smile, “Un poco de diplomacia. Nada mas.” A little diplomacy. Nothing more. Ever considerate about our comfort and needs, he had instituted a search for provisions, and learned that the la vieja—the old woman, as he called her—had some chickens concealed not far from the house, and, whether by persuasion or threats, he would not say, he induced her to part with one of them, and intimated that the same diplomacy he had employed in getting the first, would, if necessary, avail in securing others. The outlook was still brightening, and we now felt more than ever that our deliverance was near.

Shortly after midday, while we were taking our usual siesta in the launch, we were suddenly startled by an unearthly noise. All the dogs and whelps of the place and all the “curs of low degree”—and there were many of them—began to bark at once. And then in the forest near by there was such shouting and screaming on the part of men and boys, accompanied by the neighing of horses and the braying of mules, that it seemed that a troop of guerrillas was bearing down upon us. Never before had we heard anything like it, except possibly a Sioux or Navajo war whoop. They seemed to desire to frighten us to death before attacking us vi et armis. But no music could have been more grateful to our ears than were those discordant notes emitted by man and beast. We knew at once what it all meant, and, almost before we could reach the top of the bank, our animals and men were all gathered in the small free space in front of the cabin, and with them were the bearers of the BogotÁ mail. There were about thirty mules and horses, and more than a dozen men.

We had telegraphed for mules only, as we did not think we should be able to get horses, but to our delight we found that we were to have two good saddle horses for our personal use, besides the mules destined for our baggage. As, however, both men and animals needed rest, after their long tiresome trip from Villavicencio, it was deemed best to defer our departure until the following morning. The animals were then turned loose to browse on whatever they could find to appease hunger, and their masters were soon ensconced in their hammocks, slung wherever they could find a suitable place for them.

It was arranged with our vaqueano that we should all be ready for our journey across the llanos de madrugada—at early dawn—the following morning. We had a long day’s ride before us, as the nearest stopping place, where we could hope to find food and shelter, was at a place called Barrancas, where was the house of the owner of a large hato—cattle farm.

Bright and early, then, the next morning, our peons and vaqueano were busy saddling our horses and packing our baggage on the backs of the mules. The mail bongo from OrocuÉ—which had left that place ten days before we did—arrived a few hours before our departure, and all mail matter was hurriedly put on the backs of other mules by those in charge of the mail destined for BogotÁ and intervening points.

It was not without a pang that we bade farewell to our devoted crew, who had done so much to render our voyage on the Meta and Humea as pleasant as it was memorable. From the ever-courteous and thoughtful captain to our good-natured and obliging Guahibo, we were always the recipients of delicate attentions of every kind. We might travel far before again meeting with men so kind and so sympathetic as were those four whom it was our good fortune to meet in an isolated village of far-off Colombia. “God bless you all!” we said in parting. “Nothing is too good for you.”

During the first hour after starting we had to struggle through what the natives call the montaÑa. It had nothing mountainous about it, as the name would seem to indicate, but was a dark, nearly impervious wood almost on a level with the waters of the Humea. In the dry season, I doubt not, the path through this forest would present no difficulty, but during the rainy season it was next to impassable. Everywhere there was deep, sticky mud and deeper pools and dirty stagnant water. Often our horses sank to the saddle-girths in the tenacious slime, and it was only by the greatest effort that they were able to extricate themselves. At times, where the mud and water were unusually deep, we were forced, for short stretches, to make our way through the pathless forest. Then every step was impeded by branches and lianas and progress was next to impossible. Finally, with great difficulty for the animals and not a little danger to ourselves, we succeeded in effecting our exit from this terrible montaÑa, and, before we were aware of it, we found ourselves on high and dry ground on the edge of a beautiful, smiling prairie of apparently limitless extent.

What a relief it was to get once more into the open—into the broad llanos of Colombia—where we could have an unimpeded view for miles in every direction. We had been in the depths of the forest so long, getting only occasional glimpses of the llanos on our way up the river, that we felt like a prisoner given his liberty after a long term of confinement. Not that we had not enjoyed the forests while we were in them. Far from it. We had enjoyed every moment of the time spent in studying their richness and beauty. But now that we had reached the llanos, to which we had so long looked forward, and were no longer confined to the limited quarters of our launch; now that we were on our willing steeds and could move as we chose in any direction and as far afield as fancy might suggest, we experienced a sense of freedom and agility that surprised ourselves. We felt as if we had suddenly been transferred to another world, so different was our new environment from that in which we had spent so many weeks.

Never did the earth seem so green or the sky so blue, or the sun so bright; never did the face of nature appear so ravishingly beautiful as on that glorious May morning near the picturesque Humea. And away to the west, partly veiled by haze and cloud, loomed up higher than ever those vast mountains of majesty and mystery that seemed to overhang the world. Yes, we were slowly but surely approaching the Andes, and in a few days more, Deo volente, we should be scaling its dizzy heights and exulting in the splendid panoramas that would be presented to our enchanted gaze.

The landscape before us was indeed beautiful, entrancing as a vision, fair as the Happy Valley of Rasselas. Exulting in a new sense of freedom, and stirred by many overmastering emotions, we could but exclaim with Byron,

I have called the part of the llanos we were then entering a prairie, but it was far more beautiful than any of our plains known by that name. It was more like the palm-besprent delta of the Nile than the tame and almost treeless reaches of land which characterize so much of our western prairies. Here and there were coppices of graceful shrubs made melodious by feathered songsters whose notes were new to us, but everywhere, at no greater distance from one another, were our old friends that had accompanied us all the way from the mouth of the Orinoco—the ever-attractive moriche palms.

We saw also several other species of palm that excited our interest, but none more so than the strange corneto palm. Like various species of the Oenocarpus and Iriartea, it is remarkable for its adventitious or secondary roots, which, springing from the trunk in large numbers, lift it above the ground, and give it the appearance of a large column supported on a cone of smaller columns inclined to it obliquely. These roots vary from a fraction of an inch to several inches in diameter. They have at times a length of from six to ten feet and embrace a space of ground from five to eight feet in diameter. They are frequently covered by vines and parasites so as to form a natural bower which is used as a retreat by wild animals. Even the Indians have recourse to these fantastic arbors as a place of refuge during rain storms.

Here, as in the land of the Aruacs, the moriche palm is not only a thing of beauty, but, for the Indians, a source of comfort and joy. This and other palms, notably a kind of date palm, and the Cumana, which bears a fruit similar to the wild olive, supply the Indians, during certain months of the year, with all the food they consume. Speaking of the palm, Padre Rivero declares it to be “the earthly paradise of the Guahibos and Chiricoas. It is their delight, their general larder, their all. It is the subject matter of their thoughts and conversations. About it they dream, and without it life would possess no joy for them.”1

Like the cocoa palm, “By the Indian Sea, on the isles of balm,” of which Whittier so sweetly sings, the palm on the Meta and its affluents, as well as on the lower Orinoco, is for the child of the forest

When contemplating the bountiful provisions of Nature in favor of the inhabitants of the tropics, as evinced in various species of food-producing palms, we are forcibly reminded of the statement of LinnÆus that the first home of our race was somewhere in the tropics. “Man,” says this illustrious botanist, “dwells naturally within the tropics, and lives on food furnished by the palm tree; he exists in other parts of the world and subsists on flesh and cereals.”2

The llanos in places are quite level, and intersected by numerous caÑos and streams. Some of them are so large that they could easily be converted into navigable canals for small craft. In other places the plains are undulating and are ideal grazing lands during the rainy season. There is always an abundance of water, even in the dryest summer, and the numerous groves and clumps of trees suffice to furnish shade at all times for the largest herds.

We had not proceeded far when we met a large herd of cattle in care of herdsmen quietly reposing beneath some umbrageous moriche palm or singing some favorite Llanero song. Contrary to what we expected, the cattle were not so wild as those we had seen in Venezuela and, although we passed within a few yards of them, they barely noticed us. They were quite as tame as any one would find in the pasture lands of an Illinois farm.

But what a fine breed of cattle they were and in what splendid condition! They were as fat, sleek and large as any we had ever seen on the plains of Texas or Nebraska, and would, I am sure, command as high prices in the stockyards of Chicago.

We were deeply impressed with the future possibilities of the Venezuelan grazing lands, but we are now convinced that even a greater future awaits the llanos of Colombia when properly exploited. To extend the Cucuta railway so as to place Casanare and Villavicencio in connection with Lake Maracaibo would be a far less difficult and costly undertaking than many other railroad enterprises in South America that have been carried to a successful issue, and that, too, when the traffic hoped for was far less than it would be in this instance. Such an extension, which would not need to be more than two or three hundred miles in length, would put the Colombian llanos in direct communication with the chief ports of the United States and Europe. By using fast steamers, freight could then be carried from the heart of the llanos to Mobile or New York in a week. What an immense development of the cattle industry this would at once effect is beyond calculation. It would be a greater source of revenue to the Republic of Colombia than all its mines combined.

At the first blush this project may appear Utopian to those who are unfamiliar with the country or who have never given thought to the feasibility of the enterprise. Colombia, to most people in the United States, is little better known than the territory of the Congo. Even to the Colombians themselves, the llanos—la parte oriental, as they call it—is a terra incognita. Outside of the Llaneros—cattle men—who have interests there, it is rarely visited by any one connected with the administration of the government. To reach the llanos from BogotÁ means a long and tiresome journey across the eastern Cordilleras, and few are willing to undertake such a trip out of curiosity or for the purpose of informing themselves about the resources of this distant and neglected part of their country.

And yet, far away as they may seem, the llanos are not half so distant from the United States as England is, and, with the steamship and railway facilities above indicated, they could be brought as near to New York in time as is London at the present.

Probably a more economical way of reaching the llanos would be by the Orinoco and the Meta. During the rainy season, as we have seen, boats of light draft, but of considerable tonnage, can safely traverse these rivers as far as Cabuyaro or BarrigÓn. A few hundred tons of dynamite judiciously applied would effect a wonderful change for the better in the beds of the two rivers named, and would render navigation quite safe for the whole, or at least a greater part of the year.

When we note the magnitude of the beef trade between Australia and the Argentine and the different ports of Europe, we are amazed to observe that so little has been attempted towards developing a similar but a more profitable trade with regions that are comparatively at our doors. If these fertile and favored lands, instead of belonging to a country long known, and looked at askance by capitalists and business men, were a new discovery, there would be as great a rush towards them on the part of colonists as there has frequently been to those Indian lands that have, from time to time, been opened to white settlers in Oklahoma and elsewhere in the West.

Now that our people are beginning to realize that the cattle in the United States are not increasing in proportion to the demands of its rapidly-growing population, they may be induced to turn their eyes towards the vast plains of our two sister republics of Colombia and Venezuela, where there is, all the year round, abundant pasturage of the richest kind for millions of cattle. There are vast fortunes awaiting those who are willing to venture into these long-neglected fields.

According to the reports of our Bureau of Animal Industry, the United States has been for some years past suffering from fever ticks and other plagues an annual loss of more than sixty million dollars. This fact, coupled with the increasing demand for beef, renders it imperative to seek for an adequate supply elsewhere. The cheapest and best place in which to secure this extra supply is, me judice, in the marvelous llanos so near our own country, which should, in the manner indicated above, be brought much nearer than they are at present.

I know that people will hesitate about investing in countries whose governments are as unstable as those of the two nations mentioned, and where foreign investors have found so little encouragement and sympathy. There is, however, reason to believe that the age of revolutions is coming to an end, and that it will, in the near future, be succeeded by the reign of law. Peace congresses, arbitration agreements, the spread of education, and the construction of railroads have produced splendid results in other parts of the world, where progress had long been unsatisfactory, and who will say that we may not hope to see the same beneficent results realized in Venezuela and Colombia? If all else fail, it is quite certain that our government will know how to safeguard the rights of those of its citizens who may have interests in these countries about whose validity there can be no question. Now that all are so desirous of seeing improved commercial relations established between the United States and the various countries of Latin America, it would seem to be a matter of prime importance not any longer to ignore the golden opportunities that in the regions bordering the Caribbean have so long eluded American energy and enterprise.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when we arrived at Barrancas. We found here a good-sized house with an open shed—enramada—near by. This latter structure is used as a shelter for farming implements, harness, saddles, etc., and as a place where peons and herdsmen may swing their hammocks and sleep during the night. The house, to our surprise, had a tile roof, the first we had seen since leaving Ciudad Bolivar.

The proprietor of the hato, whose home and family were in BogotÁ, received us cordially and did everything in his power to make us comfortable. He also gave us his own room, which had a board floor, another novelty to us. We were soon provided with a frugal repast, after which we were entertained by our host’s experiences on the llanos. He was one of eighteen children of the same mother. He and his eleven brothers own a number of ranches and have many thousand cattle in different parts of the republic.

“During the last war,” he said, “the soldiers appropriated a thousand of our steers.” “Did you put in a claim to the government for damages?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, “but it did no good. I never got a centavo and never expect to. If I had been a foreigner, especially if I had been an American, I should have received compensation for my loss. The government always pays foreign claims when just, but the citizens of the country must be satisfied with promises. It always promises to reimburse us for any losses sustained during revolutions but the fact is that we never get anything more substantial than promises.”

The labor problem was as serious with him as with a Kansas farmer during harvest time. “Es muy dificil conseguir brazos aquÍ,”—it is very difficult to secure laborers here—he told me in a tone of sadness. “So many men lost their lives during the last war, that the country is now suffering for a lack of working men.”

And yet, notwithstanding his losses and his troubles, our host was a thoroughly loyal Colombian. He loved to talk about his country, its marvelous resources, and the great future in store for it. He spent most of the year in the capital, coming to Barrancas only for a few weeks at a time, and that only when business demanded his personal supervision.

I was curious to learn from him, a Llanero, and therefore an expert horseman, the shortest possible time in which the trip could be made to BogotÁ from BarrigÓn. Some books I had read stated that the distance from the head of navigation on the Meta—and we had reached that point—to BogotÁ was only twenty miles, while certain Venezuelans I had met had assured me that the trip could be made in two days. His answer was conclusive. “The shortest possible time without a relay of horses,” he said, “is four days. To attempt to cover the distance in less time would be fatal to the horse. I never try to reach BogotÁ from here in less than four days, and even this means hard riding.”3

“But what brings you up the Orinoco and the Meta at this season of the year,” he enquired. “You are certainly the first Americans to come here—rio arriba—up the river. Others may have come to the llanos from the capital, but, if they did, I am not aware of it. And why did you select the rainy season for your journey? Why did you not wait until summer, when it is dry, and when the roads are in better condition?” We then explained to him that no boats ascended the Meta during the summer season and that we were thus forced to come during the winter. Strange as it may appear, this had never occurred to him. And yet he was an intelligent man and well informed about his country and presumably about the means of communication with the countries adjacent.

The Colombian Llanero is a most interesting character. He is absolutely unique among his countrymen. The only people with whom he can be compared are the inhabitants of the Apure plains and the Gauchos of the Argentine pampas. Like these he regards as “fortunate the man who has received from heaven the means of safeguarding life and property—a good horse and a good lance.”4 Having these two essentials of defense and offense, he is happy and independent.

This is readily understood from his manner of life, which is quite akin to that of the Arabian nomad. The desert in which he lives and his eternal struggle against a physical environment that is as savage as it is grandiose; his occupation as a herdsman and his roving life in the boundless plain, have given the Llanero a character that is as original as it is interesting.

As a son of the desert, he is a lover of music and poetry, and will spend an entire night or several consecutive nights dancing, playing his rude guitar, scarcely larger than the hand that twangs it, or a huge banjo, and singing verses either of his own composition, or those of some other poet of the plains. For strange as it may appear, poets abound in the llanos as scarcely anywhere else. They may be unable to read or write but they are nevertheless able to produce songs—tonos or trovas llaneras—that are frequently marked by rare beauty and depth of feeling. Considering their limitations, their faculty for versification is often really remarkable, and it is not unusual to find among them a singer that will improvise with as much facility as an Italian improvisatore.

The Llaneros have a poetry of their own which they never abandon. They compose what they sing and sing what they compose. And, although they cannot as yet point to one of their poets who has had the advantages of education and culture, they can, nevertheless, point with pride to many of their number who have produced metrical compositions of marked excellence and power of expression. The pity is that so far we have no anthology of these poets of the plains. There is certainly a rich field here for research awaiting some lover of the fresh and the novel in literature and it is to be hoped that some one may soon explore a domain that is so promising in results.

Their favorite compositions are ballads or rhymed romances, called galerones, which are sung as recitatives. They closely resemble the popular rhymed romances of Spain, and refer generally to deeds of prowess performed by their own heroes in their constant struggles with the wild and unsubdued nature in which their life is cast. In these galerones valor and not love is the protagonist. Love, in the metrical compositions of the plains, is always a secondary character.

Two stanzas from a poem entitled En Los Llanos—On the Plains—will exhibit the character of these poems, and show, at the same time, that the Llanero has a keen eye for the beautiful and sublime in nature and that his heart is open to the sweetest sentiment and the deepest piety and reverence.

“Far, far away from my hearth,” he laments, “meseems I am in a desert.” And he gives his reason.

For the Llanero a view of the beauty and grandeur of his surroundings is a call to prayer, as is evinced by the following lines:

Before daylight next morning, the vaqueano knocked at our door, announcing that it was time to rise, as we had another long ride before us and must start early. Coffee was soon ready for us and also a roast chicken. The latter, however, was prepared in such a way that we did not relish it. Then it was, indeed, that we missed our Indian cooks of the Meta. We asked for some milk for our coffee, but although surrounded by large herds of cattle, there was not a drop of milk in the house. When we expressed surprise at this, the cook replied: “We never milk the cows here. We leave the milk for the calves.”

I had often had a similar experience in the large ranches of the trans-Missouri region and was not, therefore, specially surprised at the answer. However, a little persuasion induced one of the peons to secure us a calabash of milk, although his task was not an easy one. The cows, unaccustomed to being milked, refuse to stand still, and in this instance, the peon had to tie one of them to a tree. Even then, he was obliged to call in the aid of an assistant before he could get the milk we craved.

On the cattle farms of Venezuela, where the cows are quite wild, it is necessary to throw a noose around the horns of the animal to be milked, and for one of the dairymen to hold it secure by a long pole, while another does the milking in the usual way. Our peon, fortunately, was not obliged to resort to such a drastic, time-consuming method.

Although it had rained heavily the greater part of the night, there was no indication that the downpour would soon cease. On the contrary, it looked as if it were to continue raining all day. Fortunately, we were provided with good waterproof ponchos, and were prepared for any aguacero—heavy shower—that Jupiter Pluvius might choose to send from the heavy, lowering clouds that, pall-like, overcast the sky.

Before we left OrocuÉ, at the suggestion of the prefect of the place, we had telegraphed to Villavicencio for a couple of bayetones—a special kind of poncho—and these our vaqueano had delivered to us at BarrigÓn.

To the inhabitants, especially the Indians of South America, and more particularly those living in the Cordilleras, the poncho is what a mantle was to an Irishman in the days of the poet Spenser. “When it rayneth it is his pent howse; when it blowes it is his tent; when it freezeth, it is his tabernacle. In sommer he can weare it loose, in winter he can weare it close; at all times he can use it, never heavy, never cumbersome.” In a word, this “weede is theyr howse, theyr bedd, and theyr garment.”7

The poncho or bayeton,8 usually made of wool, in fully six feet square with a hole in the centre to admit the head. Our bayetones—called “nabby-tonys” by C.—were really double ponchos, made by sewing together two blankets, one red, the other blue. When the weather is damp and cloudy, the blue side is exposed, whereas it is the red that is kept outside when the sun is shining. The wearers of this useful garment have learned by experience that these two colors are differently acted upon by heat and light and they accordingly adjust it so as to secure the maximum of comfort. The manta is a lighter covering made of white linen and is sometimes highly embroidered. It is used when the sun’s rays are more intense, because it reflects the solar rays better than the red woolen garment. It is, however, rather an ornament than a necessity, and its use is confined almost entirely to the better classes.

Provided with a poncho, a hammock and a many-pocketed saddle—which are almost as indispensable as his horse—the Llanero is always at home. The two former, he carries in a bundle behind his saddle, where they are always ready for him at a moment’s notice. In camping out he slings his hammock in any convenient place, and, if it be in the open, the poncho is, by means of a rope, held over it in such wise that he can defy the most violent storm of the tropics, and sleep as soundly and be as well protected from the rain as if he were under his own roof-tree.

Our trail was one of the numerous cattle paths that intersect the llanos in every direction. The one we followed was a narrow ditch filled with from one to two feet of water. Our vaqueano, who was in the lead, trotted along as if we were following a dry path, and we had to keep up with him or be lost. It was then that we realized the impossibility of traveling over these extensive plains without a guide, especially on a cloudy day during the rainy season. As well might one try to cross the ocean without a compass as attempt to make one’s way over the llanos without a vaqueano. There was so many caÑos—those natural channels, like deep ditches, connecting streams and rivers—and morasses to cross that were quite impassable except in certain places known only to the Llaneros, who are thoroughly familiar with the country, that a stranger traveling alone would soon find progress quite impeded.

To attempt to reach one’s destination by relying on the oral directions of a Llanero would be quite hopeless. They would, probably, be worded somewhat as follows:

“Continue your course over the savanna—arriba, arriba—up, up, until you reach that bunch of cattle you see yonder. You see them, don’t you?” queries the Llanero. They are some cows and young bullocks, lost in the distance. Not having an Indian’s keenness of vision you discern absolutely nothing, and yet, unwilling to admit the fact, you declare that you distinguish them perfectly. Your informant then vouchsafes further information which, if you carefully heed and are able to follow, will without fail, conduct you to your desired goal. “Then,” he continues, “go to a clump of algarroba trees, but leave that aside and veer towards a group of palms which you will see from there. When you reach the palm group, coast along the foothills, across the CaÑo del Cayman, for that is the name of the caÑo, until you come to the CaÑo del Tigre. Next, you come to a copse of bamboos, and then after that to the CaÑo de Chaparro Negro. Near it you will find the Paso del CaÑo. Cross it and you will come to a morichal at your left, but leave it behind, and continue a little to the right for half an hour, and you will see the place you are looking for.”

Years ago I had received similar directions from an old woman in the mountains of Conamara, but there, all I had to do was to keep on the road, and stop at the place I was seeking when I reached it. In the llanos, where there are no roads, outside the hundreds of cattle paths extending in every direction, it would be natural for the traveler, depending on directions like the above, promptly to lose himself.

Fortunately, we had a good vaqueano, one who knew every cowpath and caÑo and clump of trees between BarrigÓn and Villavicencio, and we felt thoroughly at ease under his guidance. At times, it is true, we found it somewhat difficult to keep up with him. He seemed to have reserved the speediest animal for himself, or he knew better how to keep up a sustained trot than we did. But, be that as it may, we managed never to permit him to vanish from sight.

As we were riding over the plains we observed a large number of vultures—Gallinazos—on a tree near our path. Hard by was the carcass of an ox, that had just died, on which a single king vulture—Sarcoramphus Papa—like the one we fancied that preyed on the liver of Tityus—was making his morning repast. The Gallinazos appear to stand in awe of the king vulture, and were patiently waiting till he was satiated before making any attempt to appease their own voracious appetites. The two species are never seen to feed on the same carcass together. We saw several other such vulture banquets on our way, but never did we see so many of these scavengers congregated around the same carrion.

After six hours of hard riding, most of the time in a heavy rain, we reached Los Pavitos. It consisted of a small bamboo hut and a number of sheds. Here we dismounted for our midday meal, which consisted of a few boiled eggs, and a cup of cafÉ À la llanera—that is, coffee without milk or sweetening of any kind—sin dulce—as the natives phrase it—and some crackers that we had in an improvised haversack.

The family living in the hut consisted of three persons—man, wife and their little daughter, a sweet child of about four years of age. Both mother and child were neatly dressed, and had a genteel appearance that was in marked contrast with their surroundings. The child wore a tidy pink dress, tastefully ornamented, and seemed as if she had just come from the class-room of a convent school. The family impressed us as having seen better days, and had evidently not lived always so far away from their fellows.

Near the house stood a large calabash tree, bearing the largest fruit of the kind we had yet observed. Some of the specimens of this tree looked not unlike green pumpkins, and were fully from ten to twelve inches in diameter. It is well named the crockery tree, because, in the tropics, it supplies to a great extent the kitchen utensils which are elsewhere made from clay.

Within a few steps of the tree mentioned was a broad, murmuring stream—shaded on both sides by large, overhanging trees—of pure crystal water. It was the first time in many weeks that we had seen clear, flowing water, and then was brought home to us, as never before, the truth of old Captain John Hawkins’ expressive words that there is nothing “so toothsome as running water.” While on the Orinoco and the Meta, we always had with us large earthenware filters, for it was not safe to drink the muddy waters of these rivers, often containing more or less decaying animal matter.

The last thing we did before leaving our launch was to fill our canteen with filtered water. But more than a day had elapsed since then, and our supply was exhausted. We accordingly proceeded to replenish our canteen with water from the neighboring stream, but, as soon as the lady of the house saw what we were about, she begged us to permit her to render us this little service. “I know where the water is best,” said she, and, taking the canteen, she waded out almost to the middle of the stream and in a few moments returned with a new supply of water fresh from the Andes.

As we prepared to leave, mother and child—the father was sick abed with malaria—both expressed their regret that we could not remain longer. “We feel greatly honored,” the good woman said, “by your visit, and, if you ever come this way again, you must be sure to come to Los Pavitos. Dios guarde Á VV. y feliz viaje.” May God protect you and may you have a happy journey.

Such were the parting words of this gentle soul in the wilderness, words of tenderest charity and sweetest benediction. For hours afterwards her touching accents seemed like music in our ears, and the image of her lovely child, her darling niÑita, nestling by her side, with her little hands waving us a fond adieu, was before our eyes long after we had left the llanos far behind us.

What was it in these gentle creatures, whom we saw for only a few moments, that appealed to us so strongly? Was it that secret bond of sympathy—highly intensified by circumstances and environment—that makes all the world akin? Was it the same sentiment that touched the artistic soul of Raphael, when, on passing through an Italian village, he saw the mother and child whom he has immortalized in his Madonna della Sedia. Or were we just then in the mood that impelled Goethe to indite his soul-subduing ballad Der Wanderer? Perhaps. Let the reader judge from the following stanza:—

After leaving Los Pavitos, we still had a three-hours ride ahead of us before reaching Las Palmas, where we purposed stopping for the night. Fortunately, it had ceased raining and our trail was now in a much better condition than it had been since leaving Barrancas.

It contributed much to our comfort, too, that we were able to complete our day’s journey under sun-proof clouds. So far we had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from the exaggerated heat of the plains. Some of our Ciudad Bolivar friends had told us that the heat of the llanos was so intense that it would be necessary, if we would avoid sunstroke, to travel by night. As a matter of fact, the temperature was never above 80° F. During the greater part of the time it was several degrees below this figure. Besides, to attempt to cross the llanos in the rainy season, during the pitch-dark nights that usually prevail, would be like trying to find one’s way through a Cimmerian bog. Not even the most experienced vaqueano would venture on such a foolhardy journey.

We arrived at Las Palmas just as the rays of the setting sun were beginning to throw a veil of crimson and purple over the distant summits of the Cordilleras. Here we met with the same cordial reception as elsewhere on the llanos. As, however, there was not room enough in the small choza and enramada for our entire party, we had recourse to our portable tent, which we always had with us for such emergencies. When we enquired of our host what he could offer us for comida, he sadly replied he had nothing but bananas, which were at our disposition. There were no eggs or chickens, and, although there were herds of cattle all around us, it was quite impossible to get a draught of milk. The cows would not permit anyone to milk them.

We then remembered that we yet had in our haversack a small tin box, still unopened, of sliced Chicago bacon. This, with some crackers, was all that was left of the little store of provisions that we had brought with us. It was not without grave misgivings that we proceeded to open this remnant of our food-supply. We had, on several former occasions, found that our canned goods were unfit for use, and what if the contents of this last box should be spoiled? It meant that we should be reduced to extremely short rations until we should reach Villavicencio, and there was no certainty when that would be. We had still another montaÑa to pass, many rivers and caÑos to cross, and, above all, the terrible Ocoa, which, on account of the floods that had been overflowing its banks during the past week, our vaqueano said, might delay us for several days.

But the good God, who takes care of the birds of the air and clothes the lily of the field, had not forgotten us. We found the contents of the box as fresh and wholesome as when first enclosed in the far-off metropolis on Lake Michigan, and very pleasant was it, as the reader can imagine, for us, who had so long fared on chicken, eggs and bananas, to have a change in our aliment, in the form of sweet, nutty, breakfast bacon and that, too, from the glorious land of the Stars and Stripes.

Early the next morning we were again in the saddle. Before bidding us adieu our kindly host expressed his regret that he was unable to give us better entertainment. He wished us to understand that it was through lack of means and not of good will. “Dispense la mala posada,” excuse our poor lodging house, he said—and his wife and daughter, a fair young girl just entering her teens, re-echoed his apologies and in accents that left no doubt as to their sincerity.

During the latter part of the night at Las Palmas, there was a genuine tropical aguacero—the heaviest downpour that we had yet witnessed. When we started from there the next morning it was still raining heavily, and with no indication that there was to be a change until late in the day, if then. Now, more than ever, we congratulated ourselves on having secured our bayetones just when they were so much needed. They were all they had been represented to be and more. Although we had already spent many hours in continuous rainfalls, not a drop of moisture had yet reached our persons, and we had remained as dry as if we had traveled under a cloudless sky. The raincoats we had brought with us, although guaranteed to be the best waterproofs made, would never have served the purpose that our bayetones answered so admirably.

After about an hour’s ride, we entered a montaÑa similar to the one near BarrigÓn, but greater in extent. The mud was not so deep, but there were more caÑos and streams to cross. Some of them were quite deep, and in a few instances, the current was so strong that our horses had difficulty in keeping themselves on their feet. Several times we turned to our vaqueano to enquire if a particularly large stream was the much-dreaded Ocoa. “No, SeÑores,” he always replied; “El Ocoa es mÁs grande”—the Ocoa is larger.

We noticed that he was quite pensive and apparently as much preoccupied about the Ocoa as we were ourselves. He then informed us that he had learned at Las Palmas that the Ocoa had been impassable for several days past, and he feared we should be detained there for some time. Just then we came to the largest and widest torrent that we had yet met. We effected the passage of this with the greatest difficulty, and not without considerable risk to both mount and rider. After we had safely gotten across I turned again to our guide and said: “That is surely the Ocoa, is it not?” “No, SeÑor, el Ocoa es todavia mÁs grande y mÁs bravo.” No, Sir, the Ocoa is still larger and more turbulent.

Finally, after we had been about three hours in the montaÑa, the rain continuing all the while without cessation; after we had narrowly escaped being mired several times, or being carried away by several of the impetuous water courses that obstructed our path—there were by actual count more than thirty of them; after a long struggle against the dread that was so greatly depressing our vaqueano, and trying to take an optimistic view of our situation, we had our attention directed to a loud roaring noise immediately in front of us. We knew at once what that meant, and did not need the information then volunteered by our guide, “He aquÍ el Ocoa, SeÑores.” That is the Ocoa, Sir.

A few minutes more and we were on its banks. Swollen to an unusual height by the recent heavy rainfalls in the Andes, it was now a raging, roaring mountain torrent that had attained the magnitude of a tumultuous river which swept everything before it. It must have been such a torrent that the poet Schiller had before his mind’s eye when he wrote The Diver, of which the following stanza is a part:—

C., who had never witnessed in Trinidad such exhibitions of storm and flood, was in despair. Our peons, finding their worst forebodings an actuality, were distressed and disconsolate. If they could but reach the other side of the river, they would be almost in sight of their homes from which they had been absent for more than a week.

“How long shall we be obliged to wait before we can cross?” someone timorously inquired. “If it does not rain any more,” the reply came, “we may get over to-morrow evening. If there is another aguacero in the mountains, Dios sabe,”—God knows—“how long we may be detained here.” Just then, one of the peons who claimed superior knowledge about the behavior of such rios bravos as the one before us, gave it as his candid opinion, that, even if there were no further rain, it would be quite impossible to effect a passage inside of three days.

To one unfamiliar with the suddenness with which mountain streams become raging torrents,9 and the quickness with which they subside, these declarations of opinion were depressing enough. I had, however, spent many years among the Rocky and Sierra Madre mountains, and had often had occasion to study the modus operandi of the cloud-bursts that are there of so frequent occurrence. Besides this, while our peons were disputing among themselves as to what was best to be done in our embarrassing situation, I had been carefully observing the height of the water line and found, to my great delight, that it was gradually becoming lower. After making a few measurements, I found that, if there were no further rainfall, we should be able to cross to the other side before sundown.

As it was now long past noon, and we had had nothing to eat since early morning, it was suggested that we take a little luncheon, while waiting for the river to become fordable. Suiting the action to the word, a fire was started, our kit of kitchen utensils was drawn from its sack, and in a short time we had a large cup of fragrant, black coffee, and the remnant of our breakfast bacon fried in a manner to do credit to a New York chef. We still had a few soda crackers, and these, together with the coffee and bacon, furnished us with a repast that left nothing to be desired.

Having no doubt about our ability to reach Villavicencio before nightfall, we gave all the remaining eatables to our vaqueano and peons. They thankfully partook of the coffee and crackers, but a mere taste of the bacon quite satisfied them. They had evidently never eaten any before and, far from relishing it, found it positively distasteful. They had yet to acquire a taste for bacon as others acquire a taste for snails and frogs’ legs. They still had with them a few platanos—their staff of life—which they roasted, and with these and the crackers and coffee we gave them they fared even better than usual.

After luncheon was finished, it was found that the river had fallen enough to justify an attempt to cross it. Great caution, however, was necessary to prevent any possible mishap. First, the largest and strongest mule in the drove was relieved of his burden and forced to cross the river alone. He examined it very suspiciously and at first hesitated about entering the water. But he was so belabored with sticks and clubs that the poor beast had no alternative. After he had started towards the other side the peons all kept up such an unearthly yell that he was afraid to venture back. After a terrific struggle he succeeded in reaching the opposite bank.

The current was evidently still too strong to warrant another experiment of this kind. So we waited about a half an hour, when a second mule—a smaller one—was driven into the water. He had barely reached the middle of the river when he was lifted off his feet, and carried some distance down stream. It looked, for a few moments, as if he was going to be lost, but, by vigorous exertion, he got on his feet again, and stood in mid-river breasting the full force of the current and looking piteously towards his masters for assistance. But they merely jeered at him vociferously and asked him if he wished to return to BarrigÓn.

Seeing no help forthcoming, the terrified brute made a supreme effort and succeeded in getting back to the bank from which he had started. There he stood for a while panting heavily, after the strenuous efforts he had made, but all the while looking wistfully at his companion on the opposite bank of the Ocoa. After he was somewhat rested, and before any one realized what he was about to do, the mule was again in the water, making, of his own accord, a second attempt to reach the other side of the river, where his companion was awaiting him. After battling with the current for some minutes, he was successful in his venture, for which he received the unstinted applause of his masters. No sooner had he emerged from the water than he gave a long, loud bray of victory which awoke the echoes in the woods for miles around. The whole performance was so comical that it provoked roars of laughter from our entire party. As an illustration of mule-headedness in a good cause, in face of apparently insuperable difficulties, it was superb.

Having proved the fordableness of the river by mules, the peons determined to match their own strength against the still-impetuous current. Accordingly, one of their number, a giant in strength, taking the end of a hundred-foot lariat between his teeth, carefully entered the water, and, after successfully buffeting the angry billows, landed on the opposite bank, whence the two mules had watched his struggles with apparent interest and sympathy.

Now that the lariat was firmly stretched between the two banks, and that the river was still falling, it was a matter of only a short time to transfer the remaining mules and the baggage to the other side.

The jurungos10—a Llanero epithet for strangers—were the last to cross. Elevating our feet as much as possible, to avoid getting wet, we were soon in mid-stream. The motion of the water in one direction while our horses were struggling in the other, had a tendency to induce vertigo, but as we had to be on the alert every instant, in order to preclude all danger of miscarriage, we soon found ourselves happily landed, with the dread Ocoa at last in our rear.

It was now only a short ride to Villavicencio, over comparatively dry and slightly rising ground. Ere the sun had dropped behind the Andes we had alighted before our lodging house near the plaza on the main street of the town. Our host, who was awaiting us at the door, gave us a most cordial greeting, but seemed to be much surprised and embarrassed. He then explained that he had misunderstood the telegram that he had received from OrocuÉ announcing our arrival and requesting him to have piezas—rooms—reserved for us. “I inferred from the telegram,” he said, “that you were Colombians and never, for an instant, dreamed that I should have the honor of entertaining foreigners. Had I known whom I was to have as my guests, I should have made more elaborate preparations for your reception. As it is, I can offer you only an unfurnished room. It is the best I have, and I trust you will excuse my not making better provisions for your comfort during your sojourn in our midst. We have no hotels here, and our people, when traveling, are accustomed to lodge with their friends, or take an apartment like the one reserved for you.”

The good man’s explanation was quite unnecessary, as we were more than satisfied with our room. It was large and airy, and, although devoid of furniture of every kind, it had a clean board floor, and that was a great deal for travelers, who, like ourselves, had been roughing it on the Meta and the llanos.

He was much relieved when he saw how easy it was to satisfy his guests, and without more ado, he proceeded to order dinner for us without delay. While dinner was preparing we had our dufflebags brought into our apartment, and, in a very short time, our camp chairs were unfolded and our cots and bedding arranged for the night. A table was next brought in from an adjoining house, and soon a young Indian maid arrived to make the necessary preparations for our evening repast. Our meals, it had been arranged, were to be served from a restaurant a few doors away. The seÑora in charge, and her daughter, who belonged to an old Colombian family, now in reduced circumstances, left nothing undone to insure the most satisfactory service possible.

A bountiful dinner, such as we had not had since leaving OrocuÉ, was soon on the table. There were meats, vegetables and various kinds of fruits and, what we found specially agreeable, good wheaten bread. Besides all these viands, there was an additional and unexpected luxury in the form of a quart bottle of generous old Bordeaux. It goes without saying that we showed due appreciation of the seÑora’s culinary skill. Never did the dishes of a Parisian restaurateur seem more inviting. Now came to us with special force the old saying that “appetite is the best sauce,” and that for travelers like ourselves, “Il vaut mieux dÉcouvrir un nouveau plat qu’ un nouveau planÈte,” it is better to discover a new dish than a new planet.

As we had resolved to remain a few days in Villavicencio before essaying the trip across the Cordilleras, we felt a sense of relief, by anticipation, in the thought that we should not, before daybreak the following morning, be obliged to hearken, as hitherto, to the usual announcement of our vaqueano, “Vamonos, SeÑores—Gentlemen, it is time to start.”

As we were both quite fatigued, we did not delay long in seeking repose on our ever-restful cots. And it was but a very short time before at least one of the travelers was in the land of dreams. And one of the visions that appeared to him was that of a little child in a pink frock, standing beside her mother under a totuma tree, near a crystal stream in the llanos, waving her tiny hand and lisping a sweet Adiosito to two strangers from beyond the sea, whose course was towards the western sky, where the giant Andes stood to salute the approaching lord of day.