Spring victorious on the higher grounds, and sending down torrents and floods to assist its triumph in the lowlands and plains.
Winter at last vanquished and gone, and forced to fly even from under the trees and every shady nook.
Now comes a warm soft breeze from the north and the east, and all the land responds to it. Torrents still pour from the hills, but the woods grow green in little over a week, and wild flowers carpet every knoll and bank.
We are all active now in the estancia and in the camp. We are preparing for the long march back over the Pampa to Santa Cruz, where Castizo says he doubts not his little yacht is already lying safely at anchor, and his daughter anxiously waiting his appearance.
Horses are now better fed and tended, and regularly exercised day after day. Saddles are repaired, and stirrups and bridles seen to. The women are busier than ever with their needles. Boys and girls are twining sinews for the strings of bolas and for lassoes. The dogs seem wild with delight. They all appear to know we will soon be on the march once more, and they dearly love their life on the plains.
Our stores are nearly exhausted—I mean our coffee, tea, maté and sugar. Flesh is still abundant, and always is. So no one will be sorry to leave this lovely forest nook, albeit we have spent many a happy day in it.
“In three days more,” said Castizo one evening, as we all sat round the blazing logs, “we will be ready to start.”
“I feel a little sorry in leaving this place,” said Jill.
“There is nothing but leave-takings in this world,” said Castizo; “and the happier one is the quicker the time flies, and the sooner seems to come this leave-taking.”
“Never mind,” said Peter; “if our good cacique would only say he would take me, I should be right glad to return with him another day.”