PAN DE AZUCAR 83 



of the mountain, Clapp and I stopped. Here is 

 the house of one Rodriguez who raises tobacco 

 and gathers mangos and cocoanuts from old trees 

 surviving the destruction of the ancient finca 

 (farm) of the rich Francisco Marti. At the very 

 foot of Azucar this beautiful place, enclosing a large 

 area within the fertile valley, was once a famous 

 estate. Ruins of stone buildings now in pictur- 

 esque decay attest the importance of the place when 

 Pancho Marti, now many years dead, lived here in 

 true country gentleman style. A gloomy atmos- 

 phere now broods over the fields the jungle 

 is reclaiming. The fine fruit trees are sadly 

 neglected, and the once symmetrical rows of palms 

 have followed nature's less orderly scattering of 

 their seed. Amid these stone ruins are now the 

 floorless thatch houses of the present proprietor 

 upon whom poverty and isolation have set their 

 mark. But no heartier welcome could have 

 been offered the stranger by the departed Marti 

 than is now offered by the living Rodriguez. 

 He picketed our horses and bade his rather pretty 

 young wife to fetch coffee. She returned with a 

 pot of coffee in one hand, a baby supported on her 

 other arm, and a torpedo-like cigar between her 



