“You said something about a harvest field, so I stood in the kitchen door and sounded the horn for dinner,” was the laughing response.
“What shall it be?”
“The same as this morning, with the addition of hard-boiled eggs; that is, providing Harvey hasn’t broken the eggs.”
“Indeed, I haven’t,” protested the boy, and he commenced to unstrap his knapsack.
A fire was soon started and the eggs were placed over the flame in a large tin cup. After being thoroughly boiled, they were put in the stream to cool, and bacon was fried as in the morning; but the corn bread was eaten cold, “by way of a variety,” so Ferguson said.
“I hope we may find some game this afternoon,” said Harvey, as he cracked an egg-shell on his heel.
“We undoubtedly shall, for it cannot be far to the Montaña proper.”
An hour later they resumed their burdens, and with swinging steps continued on down the hillside. The grass became more profuse, and soon formed a velvet carpet under the feet. It was dotted with the chilca plant, which bears a bright yellow flower, of the same color as the North American dandelion; and in places could be seen the mutisia acuminata, with beautiful orange and red flowers, and bushes that bore clusters of red berries.
“The landscape is becoming gorgeous,” said Hope-Jones.
Trees were now larger, and vines of the semi-tropics clung to the trunks and to the branches. Little streams were of frequency, all running toward the east instead of to the west, as had been observed when on the other side of the cordillera; and so, late in the afternoon, the sun commenced to go down behind the hills, which seemed strange to those who were accustomed to see it sink in the ocean.