:::n::::*i: THE VOLCANO by moonlight m::::::::: 



in chorus, is very pleasing. Black-headed Grosbeaks 

 were also here in numbers, and Meadowlarks sano- 

 from the meadows, in tones far sweeter than those 

 of our Northern bird. Once a Nonpareil Bunting- flew 

 swiftly past, — in full gaudy dress of blue, green, and 

 red. 



Later in the morning, a film of cloud tempered the 

 heat of the sun, and our little cavalcade clattered merrily 

 over the cobbles. Yes, real cobbles, but not the 

 rounded, closely laid affairs of our city streets. This 

 was an old Spanish road, and one may read, in the 

 relics of its elaborate construction, much of the am- 

 bitions and failures of the masters of the past. It 

 started out a wide, well-defined roadway, paved with 

 regular-shaped stones, a diagonal pattern of larger 

 cobbles woven through the whole. But the Avork 

 became less and less carefully done as we proceeded, 

 until finally the skeleton pattern alone marked the path 

 for mile after mile. The trail, however, even as far as 

 Tonila, was for the most part well built and levelled, 

 and some of the bridges were of remarkably firm con- 

 struction. For many scores of years they have with- 

 stood the floods of the rainy seasons. We were told — 

 and indeed we saw proofs of it — that when, for any 

 reason, it was necessary to destroy this centuries-old 

 masonry with dynamite, the cement held firm while 

 the stones gave way. There is a saying that the mortar 

 used was prepared a year in advance. 



^- 34.9 •>» 



