Like Most Of These Old
Establishments, It Was A Long Low Building With A Thatched Roof,
Enclosures For Cattle And
Sheep close by, and an old grove or
plantation of shade-trees bordered with rows of tall Lombardy poplars.
The
Whole place had a decayed and neglected appearance, the grounds
being weedy and littered with bleached bones and other rubbish: fences
and ditches had also been destroyed and obliterated, so that the
cattle were free to rub their hides on the tree trunks and gnaw at the
bark. The estancia was called Canada Seca, from a sluggish muddy
stream near the house which almost invariably dried up in summer; in
winter after heavy rains it overflowed its low banks, and in very wet
seasons lake-like ponds of water were formed all over the low-lying
plain between Canada Seca and our house. A rainy season was welcome to
us children: the sight of wide sheets of clear shallow water with a
vivid green turf beneath excited us joyfully, and also afforded us
some adventurous days, one of which will be related by and by.
Don Anastacio Buenavida was a middle-aged man, a bachelor, deeply
respected by his neighbours, and even looked on as a person of
considerable importance. So much did I hear in his praise that as a
child I had a kind of reverential feeling for him, which lasted for
years and did not, I think, wholly evaporate until I was in my teens
and began to form my own judgments.
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