The Plains of Patagonia. 215 
and in a short time I formed a habit of returning, 
animal-like, to repose at that same spot. 
It was perhaps a mistake to say that I would sit 
down aud rest, since I was never tired: and yet 
without being tired, that noonday pause, during 
which I 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 asI 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 bea relief 
to escape even from these sounds when I dismounted 
and sat down: for in a few moments 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 
suggestion of fancy, a “lawless and uncertain 
thought’ which almost made me shudder, and I was 
anxious to dismiss it quickly from my mind. But 
during those solitary days it was a rare thing for any 
thought to cross my mind; animal forms did not 
