136 Idle Days in Patagonia. 



letters, and I, less fortunate in that respect, having 

 only been able to discover one book in the house, a 

 Spanish Libra de Misa, beautifully printed in red and 

 black letters, and bound in scarlet morocco. I take 

 this book and read, until he, tired of listening to 

 prayers, however beautiful, challenges ine to a game 

 of cards. For some time we could not hit on any- 

 thing to play for, cigarettes being common property, 

 but at length we thought of stories, the loser of 

 most games during the evening to tell the other a 

 story, as a mild soporific, after retiring. My host 

 invariably won, which was not very strange, for he 

 had been a professional gambler most of his days, 

 and could deal himself the killing cards every time 

 he shuffled. More than once I caught him in the 

 very act, for he despised his antagonist and was 

 careless, and lectured him on the immorality of 

 cheating at cards, even when we were only playing 

 for love, or for something next door to it. My 

 strictures amused his Patagonian mind very much ; 

 he explained that what I called cheating was only a 

 superior kind of skill acquired by much study and 

 long practice ; so it happened that every night I 

 was compelled to draw on my memory or invention 

 for stories to pay my losses. 



Only at night one feels the winter here, but in 

 September one knows that it has gone, though 

 summer birds have not yet returned, nor the forest 

 of dwarf mimosas burst into brilliant yellow bloom. 

 Through all seasons the general aspect of nature 

 remains the same, owing to the grey undeciduous 



