8 BIRDS AND IVIAN 



It needed a long walk on the downs to get myself 

 once more in tune with the outdoor world after that 

 distuning experience ; but just before quitting the 

 house in the Dyke Road an old memory came to me 

 and gave me some relief, inasmuch as it caused me 

 to smile. It was a memory of a tale of the Age of 

 Fools, which I heard long years ago in the days of 

 my youth. 



I was at a small riverine port of the Plata river, 

 called Ensenada de Barragan, assisting a friend to 

 ship a number of sheep which he had purchased in 

 Buenos Ayres and was sending to the Banda Oriental 

 — the little republic on the east side of the great sea- 

 like river. The sheep, numbering about six thou- 

 sand, were penned at the side of the creek where the 

 small sailing ships were lying close to the bank, and 

 a gang of eight men were engaged in carrying the 

 animals on board, taking them one by one on their 

 backs over a narrow plank, while I stood by keeping 

 count. The men were gauchos, all but one — a 

 short, rather grotesque-looking Portuguese with 

 one eye. This fellow was the life and soul of the 

 gang, and with his jokes and antics kept the others 

 in a merry humour. It was an excessively hot day, 

 and at intervals of about an hour the men would 

 knock off work, and, squatting on the muddy bank, 



