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:—
“Farewell!
O Nature, guide me on my way!
The wandering stranger guide,
“To a sheltering place,
From north winds safe!