The pampas, or plains of the Paraguay and Paraná valleys, exhibit the same luxuriant natural growth of herbaceous plants as other lowland regions of the New World. They include an immense region, which stretches from the neighborhood of the southern tropic far to the southward of the river Negro (lat. 39° S.), and from the banks of the Paraná to the eastern base of the Andes. The pampas are variously covered with long coarse grass, mixed with wild oats, clover, and other herbage. The tract of country known by the name of El Gran Chaco, immediately to the westward of the upper Paraguay--scarcely tenanted excepting by wild beasts--exhibits a luxuriant covering of grass, which springs from a soil possessed of the highest natural capabilities. Further south, the plains that extend from Buenos Ayres to the foot of the Andes are covered, during a great part of the year, with gigantic thistles, which grow to the height of seven or eight feet, and are so thick as to render the country almost impassable. For nine months of the year the thistles are here the predominant (and almost the sole) feature of the vegetable kingdom; but with the heats of summer they are burned up, and their tall leafless stems are leveled to the ground by the powerful blast of the pampero, or southwest wind, which blows from the snowy ranges of the Andes, after which the ground is covered for a brief season with herbage. This is destined, with the returning spring, again to give place to the stronger vegetation which it had succeeded, and for a time supplanted. THE SMELL OF EARTH --G. CLARKE NUTTALL A bright fine evening after a day of rain is one of Nature’s compensations. The air is peculiarly sweet and fresh, as though the rain had washed all evil out of it. The mind, relieved from the depressing influence of continuous rain, is exhilarated, and, above all, the strong smell of the earth rises up with a scent more pleasing than many a fragrant essence. In the town, indeed, this earthy smell is often obscured by the bricks and mortar which cover the land, and by the stronger, less wholesome, odors of human life, but in the country it has full sway, and fills the whole air with its presence. Even a slight shower, particularly after drought, is sufficient to bring out the sweet familiar smell of the land and thrust it upon our notice. The smell of freshly turned earth is often regarded by country lovers as one of the panaceas for the ills of the flesh, and “follow a plowshare and you will find health at its tail” has proved a sound piece of advice to many a weakly town-sick one, over whose head the threatenings of consumption hung like the sword of Damocles, though it is possible that it is the fresh air, and more especially the sunshine, which are the saving media, and not the mere smell.