These immense docks, built only a few years ago, are already too small, so rapidly has Buenos Aires grown. Although almost four hundred years old, this city is as new as Chicago. For generations it remained only a miserable collection of mud huts, with lots three miles deep that could be purchased for an old, broken-down horse, or a second-hand suit of clothes. When our Declaration of Independence was given to the world only three thousand people lived on these mud flats now built up with great structures. Then it began to grow slowly, until a half-century ago it had reached a population of seventy-five thousand. Its greatest growth, however, has been in the last twenty years. A quarter of a century ago there was only a flat mudbar along the waterfront of Buenos Aires. Ships were compelled to anchor several miles out in the river. Boxes, bales and passengers were conveyed ashore in lighters and row-boats. High-wheeled carts were then pushed out into the water so that passengers could land without getting wet. Plans for a system of docks were then prepared by an English engineer, which were completed at a cost of forty millions of dollars. Five great basins were constructed which extended along the river front for three miles. At that time, however, the tonnage of this port was less than a million. Now it has reached ten millions, and additional basins are absolutely necessary. A magnificent and commodious custom house is now being built at a cost of a million and a half of dollars to provide room for the large working force necessary to care for this immense export and import trade. It is as a town of pleasure, however, that the native Argentinian loves to think of his capital. “Paris,” says he, “why, Paris and Buenos Aires should not be mentioned in the same breath.” In his opinion Buenos Aires has Paris beat to a “frazzle,” although that particular word has not yet entered his vocabulary. This is the feature of the city that almost any inhabitant will dwell upon whenever you meet him. In his opinion the theatres cannot be equalled. He will tell you of the Casino, where the best vaudeville acts of all Europe are played; and of La Escala, where the singers follow each other in melancholy procession, each one dressed in the same strapless bodice and stiff, bespangled skirt. One may sing in French, another in Italian and still another in Spanish, but each one wriggles her powdered shoulders and presses her hands to her heart in the same pathetic way. The men smoke and stare, seldom applauding, and the Argentine ladies—they give La Escala a wide berth. [Illustration: “THEY FILE AROUND AND AROUND BETWEEN THE PALMS”]