Every step into this strange country had been full of novelty; and although our interest never flagged for an instant, yet we thought San Miguelito more interesting than any place we had encountered, and at first entertained some vague notions of stopping there for the day. But when the freshness of the morning had passed, which it did before we had finished breakfast, when the cattle had all gone off in the woods, and no more amphibious girls came down for water, we were not only ready but anxious to depart, which we did a little before noon. I shall never forget our breakfast at San Miguelito. The day was still and sultry: Nature seemed wearied of the elemental war of the preceding night, and anxious for repose; the branches on the palm trees on the shore appeared to droop languidly; while the men, under plea of previous extra labor, paddled along at what Ben piously denominated “a poor, dying rate.” The north-east trades sweep entirely across the continent in Nicaragua, and this wind, for boats bound from San Carlos to Granada, is therefore exceedingly favorable. They keep close under the northern shore, following its bendings, until they get nearly opposite Granada, and then stretch boldly across the lake. This is done because, with their imperfect sailing gear, venturing into the mid-lake would almost infallibly end in being blown over to the leeward shore, whence they could only be relieved by long and toilsome rowing against a cross sea—for on that shore the waves roll with almost the strength and majesty of those of the ocean. The later-built boats have something of a keel, and are schooner-rigged. These make the passage from the fort more directly. But our sails were, I suppose, a perpetuation of those used by the Indians before the Discovery, and quite indescribable. Pedro said they were “no good,” except before the wind, and there they would make the boat fly, to use his own words, “like devil.” The vision of the night recurred to me, and I yielded a full assent to the remark.