To This Day It Gives Me A Thrill, Or Perhaps It Would Be Safer To Say
The Ghost Of A
Vanished thrill, when I remember the relief it was in
my case, albeit I was never so tied to a
Horse, so parasitical, as the
gaucho, after one of these great thistle-levelling _pampero_ winds. It
was a rare pleasure to ride out and gallop my horse over wide brown
stretches of level land, to hear his hard hoofs crushing the hollow
desiccated stalks covering the earth in millions like the bones of a
countless host of perished foes. It was a queer kind of joy, a mixed
feeling with a dash of gratified revenge to give it a sharp savour.
After all this abuse of the giant thistle, the _Cardo asnal_ of the
natives and _Carduus mariana_ of the botanists, it may sound odd to
say that a "thistle year" was a blessing in some ways. It was an
anxious year on account of the fear of fire, and a season of great
apprehension too when reports of robberies and other crimes were
abroad in the land, especially for the poor women who were left so
much alone in their low-roofed hovels, shut in by the dense prickly
growth. But a thistle year was called a fat year, since the animals -
cattle, horses, sheep, and even pigs - browsed freely on the huge
leaves and soft sweetish-tasting stems, and were in excellent
condition. The only drawbacks were that the riding-horses lost
strength as they gained in fat, and cow's milk didn't taste nice.
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