RUBBER PLANTING ON THE 
138 
field most industriously and profitably, but most do not. A case in 
point, of this lack of appreciation came to my attention during this 
journey. A planter who is so thoroughly American that he would far 
rather buy of his own countrymen than of any other, used a great deal 
of condensed milk. That which he bought of English or Swiss make 
was white and sweet, while the American brand that he wanted to buy 
soon became in that hot, moist climate, of a chocolate brown color, and 
quite offensive. In the goodness of his heart he wrote the manufac- 
turers, telling them the whole story, and instead of being thanked, 
received a most insulting letter from an officer of the company. He 
wrote again, not in his former vein, but stating a few salient facts, and 
ended by remarking that as the English had for one hundred and fifty 
years been successfully supplying tropical markets, they would probably 
keep on until Americans had the sense to study their methods. 
Just before the train arrived, our party was reinforced by the 
arrival of Mr. R. O. Price, the general manager of Solo Suchil, who 
had been apprised to be on the lookout for us, and who told us that 
a steam launch would be waiting for us at the end of the railway 
journey, to take us up the Coatzacoalos River to Minatitlan, and later to 
the plantations on that and tributary streams. At length our train came, 
and we were on our way. The much vaunted National Tehauntepec 
road is no doubt an engineering triumph, but what with earthquakes, 
morasses, and streams that are one day rivulets and the next raging 
torrents, it is not yet equal in equipment or service to a one horse road 
in the Far West. The trains run every other day, and get in on time 
very rarely. 
We finally arrived at Coatzacoalcos, the Atlantic terminus, two 
hours late, and there were welcomed by Mr. A. B. Luther, the gerante 
general of Plantacion Rubio. Here two more Americans joined the 
party, and boarding the steam launch, we steamed up to Minatitlan, a 
quaint old Mexican town where we were to spend the night. Beds had 
been bespoken in the little hotel familiarly known as the "bird cage, 
and we were soon sleeping the sleep of the just. 
With the first break of day we were up, had our coffee, and started 
out to see the place. As a matter of fact, there was not much to interest 
one at that early hour. Most of the inhabitants were still wrapped in 
the warm arms of the sleep god, whatever his Aztec name may be, and 
the chief signs of life were the dogs, chickens, and turkey buzzards, the 
latter the most independent and loathsome of all the feathered tribe. 
There is a fine of fifty dollars for killing one, and the creature knowing 
