"Yes, Francisco, I shall miss you, but I shall enjoy myself every day thinking of what you are doing, and you will write to me; Mamá will read me your letters, and then there will be so much to talk about when you return,"—and Francisco embraced her another time.
Half an hour later, clean and shining in his best suit of clothes, exchanged for the long linen duster that all Argentine schoolboys wear to play in, he was spinning along the asphalt streets, sitting beside the man who stood, to his young mind, for every virtue assigned to his patron saint.
At first he was slightly shy, for this wonderful soldier uncle had never paid any particular attention to him, so engrossed was he always with his books and his family; but as they threaded their way in and out the traffic-crowded streets, among the heavy carts, the noisily clanging electric tram-cars, and low, open victorias filled with elaborately dressed women, and fleet wheeled automobiles of every size and class, Francisco began to ask questions, and forgot his timidity. They were soon chatting interestedly.
"How would you like a spin out to Palermo?" his uncle asked, as they reached the central part of the city.
"Better than I could say," replied the happy lad; his heart meanwhile bounding, for he seldom saw the trees and flowers of the vast park that is one of the city's most picturesque attractions.
"Then, Enrique—to the park, via the Avenida[5] Alvear," said Colonel Lacevera to the chauffeur.
It was late afternoon now, and being Thursday, the broad avenues were filled with hundreds of vehicles; since Thursday and Sunday are the afternoons chosen by fashionable Buenos Aires for the diversion of riding or driving to the great Prado to hear the military band, and to mingle in the long lines of carriages and motor cars.
The Avenida Alvear, broad and smoothly paved, with its magnificent residences on either side, makes a desirable avenue from which to approach the park. As they rode along, the odour of jasmine and roses hung heavy about them, coming from the beautiful gardens surrounding the palatial homes. Long arbours of American Beauty roses, looking like crimson lined tunnels; majestic palm trees, over which trailed Marechal Niel roses and cypress vines; bulky shrubs, with sweet scents; all these lent their charm to the scene, and Francisco, ever alive to the beauties of nature, felt this to be a foretaste of Paradise.
Soon they were in the palm bordered drives of the park; but they crept along at a snail's pace, as the speed on crowded afternoons is limited to a funeral pace, in order that the lines of carriages both coming and going may avoid confusion.
Through the trees and shrubbery Francisco caught glimpses of cool running streams, crossed by rustic bridges; clear, limpid lakes with swans and boats, and here and there, pavilions where ices and refrescos were being enjoyed by the gay crowd. At intervals, on splendid black horses, were stationed picturesque looking mounted policemen, their long horsehair plumes trailing over their shoulders, from which hung scarlet lined capes. It was their duty to keep the half dozen columns of vehicles in proper line.