They had, therefore, journeyed on through those scenes of glory, familiar now to the eyes of Harry and Topsie, as also to those of Piñone and Aniwee, but strange to those of all the other members of the party, and had come across herds of the milk-white cattle, golden deer, and vicuña. Meat was therefore plentiful, and as the piñones and araucarias no longer grew in abundance, it was much needed. But our travellers only killed when necessary, not for the sake of sport, but for food.
“Our last day in these dear old mountains!” exclaimed Topsie sadly, as she opened her eyes with the rising sun one glorious morning, and about a month after the departure of the party from the mine of Or.
They were encamped not far from the shores of a lovely lake, whose waters gleamed with all the splendid tints of the reappearing sun, and upon whose surface thousands, I might truthfully say, myriads of wild duck and wild fowl of various species plumed and washed themselves in happy content, previous to winging their flight to far-away feeding grounds.
There was the grebe, with its beautiful plumage, but sad and mournful cry, the Barbary duck, with its rich coat of colours and handsome figure, large milk-white swans, with black heads, flamingoes, gorgeous and splendid, troops of geese raising discordant clamour, and the holy ibis of biblical renown. Every species and kind of duck seemed to inhabit that lake, a veritable birds’ paradise.
“I wish I’d been there!” I hear some of my young readers exclaim,
“No doubt,” I answer; but hear the reason of one who has travelled, and hunted, and shot as much as most men in different parts of the world, why it was that Harry, and Topsie and their cousins let their guns lie idle. There comes a time often to the most hardened sportsman, when to slay is distasteful, to destroy, more pain than pleasure; when to look upon the glories and joys of animal life, is worth all the heavy bags of game which this world could purvey. For be it remembered—and this the writer has often thought, as she surveyed her dead spoil—not all the power of man can restore to his silent, motionless victim the life which he so lightly took away. This was the reason, my young friends, why the broad lagoon was left in peace, and the happy life that reigned upon it allowed to remain undisturbed by Harry, Topsie, Freddy, Willie, and Mary.
“Eh! what’s that?” inquired Freddy, raising himself sleepily on his elbow; “did you speak, Topsie?”
“Yes, lazy, I did,” she replied, laughing. “I was bemoaning the fact that this is our last day in these splendid mountains. To-day we shall make the pampas.”
“And some friends and horses, I hope,” grumbled Harry, who was awake too. “I tell you what, Topsie, my feet are as tender as can be, and I shall not be sorry to be astride a dear old gee again; what say you all?”
Every one agreed. The travelling had been pretty stiff, and had told somewhat severely on the Indians, who in a manner are born on a horse. Their potro boots had been quite worn through, and they had been obliged to wrap their feet up in the hide of the animals shot for food, which did not answer very well, and gave considerable trouble. As may be imagined, therefore, they looked forward with no little anxiety to their arrival in the pampas, where they hoped to fall in with some of Aniwee’s tribe, the Patagonian or Tehuelche Indians.