176 To the River Plate and Back 



the sound of a Castanet. I recall that on one of the 

 first nights of my stay in La Plata I wandered out into 

 the park, where my attention was attracted to the 

 tinkling castanets of the little creatures which thronged 

 the borders of the artificial lakelet near the Zoological 

 Garden. It seemed as if a hundred fairy Spanish 

 dancers were celebrating the advent of spring. In 

 the darkness of the early evening in our own country the 

 croaking of the toads in the marshes sometimes conveys 

 a mournful impression, but in Argentina there is a 

 merry tone and a note of gayety about their concerts 

 quite consonant with the Latin surroundings. To the 

 sound of these tinkling castanets, which were ceaselessly 

 being played on the margin of the quiet river, I at last 

 fell into a dreamless sleep. 



When I awoke the light of the dawn was already 

 shining through the port-holes. I heard the tramp of 

 feet upon the deck and realized that my companions 

 were already astir. Quickly dressing, I joined them. 

 The morning was warm and as still as the night had 

 been. Little wreaths of vapor were curling up here and 

 there from the smooth surface of the water. The sun 

 came up into a cloudless sky. Breakfast was soon 

 served, and, while we were eating it, the screw again 

 began to turn and we went on as we had gone the day 

 before. We were now near the great main arm of the 

 Parana where it is joined by the mighty stream of 

 the Uruguay coming out of the tropical woodlands of the 

 north. Dr. Roth pointed across the wide river to the 

 far-off shore and told me that I was looking upon 

 the borders of the Republica Oriental, as Uruguay is 

 called. On the horizon was the smoke of an ocean-liner 

 steaming away into the pale haze of the morning. 



At last we reached our destination, the home of an 



