The Indian has to be content with the scanty earnings he can get from the transport of heavy burdens and from the wool of his llamas. By chewing coca he is able to run all day before the rider. His world is the valley where he lives. His occupation does not lead him to the mountain-top above, nor does his thought soar as far. His gloom sulks in his dress and manner of life, even in his songs and dances. When he reaches his little smoky hut, he eats his frozen and pressed potato, plays a wee tune on his quena and goes to sleep.
Self-sufficient because in need of nothing, the llama is the interpretation of the Indian. Both are products of the soil, like the yareta moss and the birds which swim in the icy water.
The dark-eyed llamas, with red-woolen tassels in their ears, move slowly across the icy plateau.
Could anything equal the dignity of a llama, his serenity, his hauteur? Why not? He knows he is indispensable. There is no one to take his place. His wool furnishes clothing, his skin leather, his flesh food, his dung fuel, and he is a beast of burden where no other can live on the bare, breathless heights.
In return, he asks no shelter, warm beneath his shaggy coat. He asks no food, for he grazes on the stiff ychu grass as he journeys along. He needs no shoes, no harness, and even provides, himself, the wool for the homespun bags lying upon his back. When there is no water, he carries in bags made of his own skin what is necessary for man. Nor do his benefactions end here. The llama furnished the mystery-loving Spaniards with that strange bezoar stone which, on account of its miraculous endowments, they placed in the list with emeralds, pearls, turquoises, and other precious stones from Peru.
Is it astonishing that the llama makes his own rules of conduct and exacts entire consideration of them? Disobedience he indicates in a way not to be forgotten! And yet such is his docility that dozens are often kept within bounds by a single thread stretched around them breast high,—rugged little mountain beasts herded with worsted! Usually so gentle, if a llama is annoyed he becomes revengeful and useless. He never will hurry, for supplying his own food he must graze when opportunity offers. He will not be overloaded. One hundred pounds he will cheerfully carry, but with more than that he sits down like a camel, dreamily chewing his cud, and can be neither forced nor persuaded to rise. In speaking of the alpaca, cousin of the llama, Father Acosta said that “the only remedy is to stay and sit down by the paco, making much on him, until the fit be passed, and that he rise; and sometimes they are forced to stay two or three hours.”
The little variegated herd, with expressions of mild surprise, step daintily along as if walking
LLAMAS AT THE FALLS OF MOROCOCHA.