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. He was quite a little man, not
more than an inch or two over five feet high, slim, with a narrow
waist and small ladylike hands and feet. His small oval face was the
colour of old parchment; he had large dark pathetic eyes, a
beautifully shaped black moustache, and long black hair, worn in
symmetrical ringlets to his shoulders. In his dress too he was
something of an exquisite. He wore the picturesque gaucho costume; a
_camiseta_, or blouse, of the finest black cloth, profusely decorated
with silver buttons, puffs and pleats, and scarlet and green
embroidery; a _chiripa_, the shawl-like garment worn in place of
trousers, of the finest yellow or vicuna-coloured wool, the white
carsoncillos_, or wide drawers, showing below, of the finest linen,
with more fringe and lace-work than was usual in that garment. His
boots were well polished, and his poncho, or cloak, of the finest
blue cloth, lined with scarlet.
It must have taken Don Anastacio a couple of hours each morning to get
himself up in this fashion, ringlets and all, and once up he did
nothing but sit in the living-room, sipping bitter mate and taking
part from time to time in the general conversation, speaking always in
low but impressive tones. He would say something about the weather,
the lack or superabundance of water, according to the season, the
condition of his animals and the condition of the pasture - in fact,
just what everybody else was saying but of more importance as coming
from him. All listened to his words with the profoundest attention and
respect, and no wonder, since most of those who sat in his living-
room, sucking mate, were his poor relations who fed on his bounty.
Don Anastacio was the last of a long line of estancieros once rich in
land and cattle, but for generations the Canada Seca estate had been
dwindling as land was sold, and now there was little left, and the
cattle and horses were few, and only a small flock of sheep kept just
to provide the house with mutton.
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