The air of the highlands was fresh and keen. Its tonic was so invigorating that we forgot fatigue, and made the journey to Santa Clara and Patzcuaro as easily as when we first set out.
On these highlands thousands of sheep are raised, and I was interested to note that of the considerable flocks we saw grazing upon the wide pasture lands along our road, the majority were black. This is said to be the result of Mexican neglect. The white sheep is the work of art. Flocks are kept white by weeding out the black, but just as hogs when let run wild will revert to the stronger color, so, too, the flocks of Mexico, inasmuch as they have been wholly neglected from the day when Spanish mastership was destroyed, have reverted to the hardier hue, until to-day the larger percentage are black. To destroy these black sheep now would bring too great a loss.
In a land like this, where the horse and the mule and the burro, as well as man, are the chief means of transport, one is continually surprised at the heavy burdens borne, and the skill and care with which the loads are carried. A piano is taken apart, packed upon a train of mules and taken to a distant village or hacienda. Elegant and fragile furniture, made in France or other continental countries, is thus conveyed. In every community there are expert cabinetmakers, who can repair and put together the most expensive furniture, and who do the work so deftly that it is even stronger than when originally made.
A FLOCK OF SHEEP, NEAR ARIO
There is no burden that a single Indian, or a couple of Indians, or a dozen Indians, will not bear upon their shoulders to any point or any distance you may name. These loads and burdens are carried with a care and safety that might be a lesson to the baggage-smashers and freight-breakers of our modern railways.
When we drew near Patzcuaro, we overtook multitudes of Indians, men, women and children, all journeying in the same direction as ourselves. Upon inquiry, we learned that they were traveling to Patzcuaro there to take part in the fiesta celebration held in honor of Our Lady of Guadaloupe, the patron-saint of Mexico, the Indian Madonna, whom the swarthy citizens of the republic adore. The nearer we approached the city, the greater the press of peones filling the roadways which lead to it. In the town the streets were thronged with these strange, wild people—Tarascon Indians most of them—many having saved up through all the year for this occasion, and now come here to blow in their scanty hoards in one single week. A thousand games of chance were in full blast. All sorts of schemes were being cried, every one of them calculated to rob the pious Indian of his uttermost centavo. Along the curbs hundreds of little charcoal fires were lit, where food was roasting over braziers. Men were walking through the streets with pigskin sacks of pulque on their backs and a gourd cup in hand, crying “only a centavo for a drink!” Dulce boys were carrying upon their heads large baskets of guava sweetmeats and candied fruits. Bakers went by with rings of bread about their necks and small rings of bread braceleted upon their arms. In the churches a continuous service is kept going all through the day and night, and the pious gambler of the plaza has full opportunity to rob the peon and enrich the church. Along the wayside, groups of Indians are squatting, exchanging gossip; hundreds of men are leaning against the walls, wherever the shade gives refuge from the sun, silent and wrapped in bright-hued zerapes, seeing all, but saying never a word. At the Fonda Diligencia, next the big church, a company of gentlemen of fortune from Mexico City, clad in dress suits and stovepipe hats, have opened handsome games of Caballos and Rouge et Noir, and about these are gathered the Dons and Doñas of the town. I see a priest step to the table, put down his money and make a win; a venturesome Indian, who has eyed the padre questioningly, now reassured, also steps up, puts down a few centavos and loses all!
STREET SCENE—PATZCUARO