The vociferous barking of a legion of dogs announces our approach, for however poor the inhabitants of these places may be the bands of mongrel curs which they keep seem to find means of living. We approach the huts, our horses kicking and snorting at the attacks of the dogs. A few of the houses are built of the usual _adobe_ bricks; the major portion--there may be a dozen or so--are simply _jacales_, as the Mexican wattle-hut is termed. Dirt, rags, and evil odours surround the place, for primitive man is a filthy being, and defiles the environs of his habitation for a considerable area around him. My visions of the crystal stream vanish. Close at hand is a foul pond of waters collected from the last rainstorm, wherein a lean-backed hog wallows, and we learn that this is the villagers' water supply! Naked children of both sexes run about under our horses' legs, and supplicate me for a _centavito_. A horse, or at least the framework of a horse--for the animal is attenuated beyond description--stands tethered under the shade of a rude roof of boughs and whinnies feebly to our sturdy mounts. "There is no water, senor," the old crone, who has emerged from one of the huts, replies. "God has sent us no rain for many days, but if the senor would like some _pulque_--" I close with the suggestion and instruct the _mozo_ to try it, to see if, in his experienced judgment, it is good. This he does, nothing loath, and pronounces it fresh. _Pulque_ is a refreshing and not unwholesome drink. It is not a spirit, although in quantities it is intoxicating. Its manufacture is unknown outside Mexico, and in Peru the _chicha_, or _maiz_ beer of the natives, takes its place. I quaff a gourd of the liquid; custom has rendered it not unpleasant to the palate, and its singular odour I disregard. And in the cool shade of the interior of the most respectable of the _adobe_ huts we rest awhile until the sun's fiery disc has descended somewhat from the zenith. Then I distribute some small largesse to the woman and her numerous progeny, for am I not an _ingles_, of that famous race whose pockets are ever lined with silver and who are known even throughout these remote regions? How do these people live? The only vegetation at hand is some gaunt _nopales_ or prickly pear cactus, forming a protective hedge around the settlement, and a few other specimens, all armed with spines and prickles after the fashion of Nature's handiwork in arid regions. Truly, these outcasts must gather "grapes of thorns and figs of thistles" if they reap anything here! But probably at the head of the _arroyo_ there is a little tilled patch of _maiz_ and _alfalfa_, such as supply the inevitable _tortilla_ for the denizens of the place, and fodder--and thereby some small revenue, as in our own case--for the beasts of passing travellers.