The Plains of Patagonia. 215 



and in a short time I formed a liabit of returning, 

 animal-like, to repose at that same spot. 



It was perhaps a mistake to say that I would sit 

 down and rest, since I was never tired : and yet 

 without being tired, that noonday pause, during 

 which T sat for an hour without moving, was 

 strangely grateful. All day the silence seemed 

 grateful, it was very perfect, very profound. There 

 were no insects, and the only bird sound — a feeble 

 chirp of alarm emitted by a small skulking wren- 

 like species — was not heard oftener than two or 

 three times an hour. The only sounds as I rode 

 were the muffled hoof-strokes of my horse, scratch- 

 ing of twigs against my boot or saddle-flap, and the 

 low panting of the dog. And it seemed to be a relief 

 to escajDC even from these sounds when I dismounted 

 and sat down : for in a few momeuts the dog would 

 stretch his head out on his paws and go to sleep, 

 and then there would be no sound, not even the 

 rustle of a leaf. For unless the wind blows strong 

 there is no fluttering motion and no whisper in the 

 small stiff undeciduous leaves ; and the bushes 

 stand unmoving as if carved out of stone. One 

 day while listening to the silence, it occurred to my 

 mind to wonder what the effect would be if I were 

 to shout aloud. This seemed at the time a horrible 

 suo-gestion of fancy, a " lawless and uncertain 

 thought" which almost made me shudder, and I was 

 anxious to dismiss it cpiickly from my mind. But 

 during those solitary days it was a rare thing for any 

 thought to cross my mind ; animal forms did not 



