a12 Idle Days in Patagonia. 
of tinamous sprang rocket-like into the air, and fled 
away with long wailing notes and loud whur of 
wings; or on some distant hill-side a bright patch 
of yellow, ofa deer that was watching me, appeared 
and remained motionless for two or three minutes. 
But the animals were few, and sometimes I would 
pass an entire day without seeing one mammal, and 
perhaps not more than a dozen birds of any size. 
The weather at that time was cheerless, generally 
with a grey film of cloud spread over the sky, and 
a bleak wind, often cold enough to make my bridle 
hand feel quite numb. Moreover, it was not pos- 
sible to enjoy a canter; the bushes grew so close 
together that it was as muchas one could do to 
pass through at a walk without brushing against 
them; and at this slow pace, which would have 
seemed intolerable in other circumstances, I would 
ride about for hours at a stretch. In the scene 
itself there was nothing to delight the eye. Every- 
where through the light, grey mould, grey as ashes 
and formed by the ashes of myriads of generations 
of dead trees, where the wind had blown on it, or 
the rain had washed it away, the underlying yellow 
sand appeared, and the old ocean-polished pebbles, 
dull red, and grey, and green, and yellow. On 
arriving at a hill, I would slowly ride to its summit, 
and stand there to survey the prospect. On every 
side it stretched away in great undulations; but 
the undulations were wild and irregular; the hills 
were rounded and cone-shaped, they were solitary 
and in groups and ranges; some sloped gently, 
