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 Libro 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 me 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 
