our morning ride we passed along river-bottoms and good grass land, where well-fed cattle gazed peacefully at us, instead of running after us and glaring with hungry eyes as their less fortunate brethren had done in the dry lands of the Altos. Leaving these pleasant pastures of El Patal, famous for keeping green and fresh throughout the dry season, we mounted a considerable hill and arrived at the small desolate rancho of Santa Rosa. Here we breakfasted in the state apartment of the house, a small windowless mud-floored chamber which served its owners as dining-room, sleeping-room, and oratory, where a dissipated-looking muscovy duck, three minute puppies, and numerous flea-infested, half-starved dogs shared our meal of tortillas and frijoles. After breakfast we clambered over more broken hills to the summit of the range, the cumbre de Cachil; and here again we passed suddenly beyond the limit of the Atlantic rainfall which keeps the Alta Vera Paz so rich and green, and entered a gloomy and desert-looking land. There was no relief to the monotony of the sun-baked mountain-sides, saving the presence here and there in the deeper hollows of a few trees, which in this dry season had dropped their leaves and clothed themselves with a wealth of brilliant blossom—yellow and white frangipani, the madre de cacao, with its soft pink bloom, and another tree unknown to me with feathery white racemes like an acacia.
From the southern edge of the range we saw the hot dried-up plain of Salamá stretching before us, and the white-walled houses of the town glistening in the afternoon sun. Although the road was here well graded and in fair condition, it was a wearisome journey over the last of the hills and down the long descent to the little rivulet which flows along the edge of the plain. The banks of the stream were covered with flowering shrubs and trees, which here near the water's edge were clothed in green leaves, and we preferred to seek a lodging in a wayside house, under their grateful shade, to riding on over the dusty plain to the hot streets of the little town. Here we were destined to remain for two whole days, refreshed by the last drops of an occasional shower blown to us over the mountains, and solaced by the sweet song of the sensontes, or mocking-birds, which abound in the neighbourhood, whilst the country round was being searched for mozos and mules to carry on our baggage. We were obliged to despatch Caralampio to Rabinal to fetch the boxes which were to have been sent there from Chiché; and, as we afterwards learnt, he had to extend his journey to Chiché itself in order to retrieve them from the Alcalde, in whose hands they had been left, and who had been faithless to his promises to forward them; Caralampio did not overtake us until we had reached Zacapa. The difficulty in engaging mules would have led to a longer delay had not Mr. Harris, the owner of the
