BACK TO CIVILISATION 173 



thrust itself upon you. One felt a mere atom, and the thought of 

 finding oneself condemned to live there alone seemed too awful to 

 face. The bare, round-headed hills looked old and bald, eternal 

 winds (though not so strong as nearer to the lake) whistled sadly 

 as before, and on. all sides pampa pebbly and grassless, ridge on 

 ridge, horizon on horizon, mirage on mirage. 



Suddenly, during that night, the sky became black over the 

 distant Cordillera and the rain began. . Immediately we slung up 

 the tents. Oh, those tents, what a comfort they were at the end of 

 a weary march ! We had no adequate poles and no bushes or pegs 

 to hang them upon, but we got them up somehow and put the 

 cargo round them. Then we crept inside and listened to the rain. 

 The warm beds, the rugs, the candle and tobacco and books. It 

 was homelike. And the dry shirt one could put on within that 

 shelter, with the rain, rain outside ! When you have slept out in 

 all weathers you begin to understand the full luxury of a tent like 

 ours, with its furs and warmth and a decent pipe out of the wind. 

 It is a moving home. To be free of the weather, to let it rain if 

 it wants to, to lie and listen to it, these are all thrilling pleasures, 

 pleasures because of the contrast to the wet open camp where, in 

 spite of the covered and sweating head and body, the pitiless rain 

 trickles in pools into your bed. And the spell of reading at night 

 inside the tent, the company of thouglits new and old of wise men, 

 these are pleasures of which only the wanderer knows the true 

 sweetness. 



During the next day or two we continued to travel over the 

 same waterless stony pampa ; there were pigmy hillocks, many 

 guanaco and a lagoon of wonderful shades of blue, also the wind 

 ahead, and dust blowing back into our eyes. We crossed the 

 River Olin and pushed on for the River Chico. One cold night 

 as we sat round the fire some one suggested we should have an 

 exhibition of our effects when we reached Santa Cruz. Beyond a 

 broken cup or two, a bombilla, and a shattered kettle, we could 

 produce little else. It was hinted that Barckhausen's trousers 

 might figure in it, and I offered to contribute my old coat. 



Before reaching the River Belgrano we came in sight of a 

 troop of horses being driven across the pampa by a couple of 



