Second-hand breakfasts, made from the ruins of supper, are never pleasant. It is less pleasant to meet the cold, damp, gray dawn without even the satisfaction of awakening from sleep. Our second morning in Cuba,—we stolidly watched the dark sky turn into tawny streaks and gradually brighten into daylight. We ate a few crackers and gnawed at a few left-over guinea hen bones, with tea, brewed in a tin cup, for a chaser. We were impatient for the sun to drive the chill out of the morning and out of our bones. Now we faced the toughest proposition we ever had met; so we dodged it. Easier than trying to climb the bluffs that blocked the way was a circuitous route over the top of a wind-blown, grass-covered hill in somebody’s field. We broke down the stone fence, drove the car through, and dashed over these fields, skipping from one hill to another. At last we brought up at the back door of the house of Govin. He gave us advice and bananas, both of which we swallowed as fast as we could. Bananas in Cuba are fine; advice is poor. We were in the center of a magnificent panorama of hills, very green, and fringed with palms that reached the horizon and seemed to be everlasting. Señor Govin had selected his home well. It was a beautiful and wonderful country. Also, it was the third of January and the now scorching sun had warmed us to the continuance of our fight against the rocks. Courage had returned and we were willing to accept whatever Cuba had to offer in the way of highway difficulties. What happened the day before we forgot. There is no time to remember, when journeying as we journeyed. The new difficulties are so rapidly encountered that each experience wipes out the recollection of the previous one. With a good-bye from Señor and a smiling adios from Señora, we ran down a long, clay-covered lane to the stone-floored valley, which was the only road there was to follow. That day we took the measure of our ability to strike the first two letters off the word impossible. We discovered a new kind of hill—a hill like a natural stairway of great, rough limestone steps. It was steep enough to be an almost impossible climb, even had it been smooth. At the left was a deep gorge on whose bottom wound the rusty rails of the Havana Central. On the right was a plowed field, crossed by gullies and covered with stones. [Illustration: “_The clearance of an ox cart is thirty-eight to forty-eight inches._” SEE PAGE 33.] [Illustration: “_At Jaruca, the whole town joined us at luncheon._” SEE PAGE 38.]