192 The Naturalist in Nicaragua 
have left such a memorial of its existence within the tropics, 
at no greater elevation above the sea than 3000 feet. 
Riding on without stopping, we passed through Yales, a 
small village of scattered huts, and reached a river flowing 
north through a fine alluvial plain almost uninhabited. After 
crossing the river three times, we turned off to the north- 
west, and passed over low grassy ranges with scattered pine- 
trees, and in the hollows a few clearings for growing maize, 
wheat, and beans. At noon we halted for an hour to let our 
mules feed on a small alluvial flat, for they had had nothing 
to eat the night before on the bleak mountain summit. 
Continuing our journey, we arrived at Daraily, where was 
a fine large clearing, with stone walls and a sugar-mill. The 
house was about half a mile from the road, at the foot of a 
hill covered with scattered pine-trees, forming a fine back- 
ground to the scene. The farm was well cultivated, and 
kept clean from weeds. Altogether the scene was a most 
unusual one for the central provinces of Nicaragua, and 
reflected great credit on the proprietor, Don EstevanEspinosa. 
Had Nicaragua many such sons they would soon change the 
face of the country, and turn many a wilderness into a 
fruitful garden. 
Passing over a stony range, we descended by a steep pass 
into the valley of the Estely, and followed it down to the 
westward across low dry hills with prickly bushes and scrub. 
About five o’clock we reached an extensive plain, covered 
with prickly trees and shrubs, and pressed on to get to the 
village of Palacaguina, where we proposed to pass the night. 
There were many paths leading across the plain, and there 
was no person to be seen to direct us which to take; whilst 
the scrubby trees interrupted our view in every direction. 
Rito had once before been in the neighbourhood, and thought 
he knew the way, so we submitted ourselves to his guidance; 
but, as it proved, he took a path which led us past, instead of 
to, the town. Night set in as we were pushing across dry 
weed-covered hills, destitute of grass or water, every minute 
expecting to meet some one who could tell us about the road. 
Rito was still confident that he was right, although both 
Velasquez and myself had concluded we must have got on 
the wrong road. The only animal we met with was a black 
and white skunk, with a young one following it. The mother 
