2 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
disconsolately amongst the reeds, by a dug-out 
canoe moored to a tree. 
A mournful country it seemed, seen through 
a blur of rain : with now and again a small 
one-roomed mud rancho, with a few draggled 
hens trying to shelter in the doorway. The 
country showed no undulations. In the grey 
driving rain it stretched away in sombre tones to 
a grey horizon. The remains of dead cattle and 
horses lay here and there, and occasionally a 
peon, huddled in his poncho, sat motionless on 
his horse, to watch the train go by. 
Where were ‘the tropical scenes’ to which 
we had looked forward ? No blossoms were to 
be seen in the fields, except patches of the 
brilliant little scarlet verbena; though tobacco 
plants flowered along the railway track, and 
tiny blue irises grew between the sleepers. 
We reached Posadas in sheets of relentless 
rain, with a sky so overcast that it seemed it 
could never be blue again. But after tea the 
rain slackened, and we set forth to explore the 
town. The road from the station led up hill, 
and was fissured with huge cracks and channels, 
down which the water ran turbid and red. For 
the soil is red, as deep in colour as Devon 
earth. A jagged line of clearing sky showed 
in the west; the trees hung their dripping 
heads; and from the scattered houses people 
peered out to watch us pass. Bushes of datura, 
drenched with rarin, stood in the untidy 
