But Castizo was always willing to oblige us with a song. He had a splendid voice, and sang as well in English as in Spanish or Chilian.
Pedro’s stories were also well worth listening to. His experiences had been many and varied; but, alas! many of them were, to say the least, very hazy, and there was a deal in the history of his life far too dark to tell. Yet he was a faithful fellow, and would any day go through fire and water to oblige us.
Peter never had a story to tell. When asked to “spin us a yarn” he would tap his clarionet, and say, with a smile—
“I tell all my stories, like the Arcadian shepherds, through my pipe.”
“Well, then, play,” Castizo would remark.
“Yes, play,” Jill would add emphatically; “our cacique commands you.”
“All right, Greenie dear,” Peter would reply, and play forthwith.
I do not think I ever heard sweeter melody anywhere than that which Peter discoursed on his pipe, as he called it, around the camp fire on the lonely Pampas.
Some of the Indians would be sure to come from their toldos, and draw near our door, whenever Peter began to play, especially Prince Jeeka and his favourite wife, Nadi.
They were invariably asked in, and just as invariably did poor Nadi bring with her some sewing to do, generally in the shape of a few pieces of guanaco skin, which she was sewing together to make a roba or mantle for her husband or herself.