THE ISLAND OF SAN CLEMENTE 137 



— not to speak of the drear and arid portions of 

 Arizona and Mexico. 



Chinetti lived alone in a little shanty which was that 

 rare thing for a Mexican herder, immaculate. The 

 shanty was just large enough for a stove, a table, a 

 bed, and some chairs. This man did not see a human 

 being perhaps once a month. He did not leave the 

 island but once or twice a year, and then for but a 

 few days. He could not read or write, but he had 

 the virtue of neatness, which covers a multitude of 

 sins. The ground for yards about the cabin was 

 swept as clean as if it were a floor; the bed had a 

 covering of white, and over it hung in graceful folds 

 an American flag made from a woman's dresses, which 

 some one had given him. Later, when the rest of our 

 cavalcade had turned in, in the hay at the corral, 

 after Chinetti had cleaned up, I sat down with him 

 and asked if he was ever lonely. 



"Lonely?" repeated the vaquero. "No, indeed. 

 Why, listen, senor." 



The sea was pounding on the long sandy beach with 

 a deep and ominous roar that had never ceased since 

 time began. 



"Sometim.e," he said, "he shake the house; he talk, 

 he growl, he get mad. Then my home — " he con- 

 tinued, looking around, "I sweep, I cook, take care of 

 things, I look out for the sheep all day; they come in 

 from five or sLx miles every morning to drink. I watch 

 them; take care of the stock." 



"Pleasure? ah, there is lots of pleasure if you are 

 alone; it is to have a contented mind, eh? After the 

 work I take my dog and my colt and we go down on 

 the beach and run races; they like it. In the after- 



