Mr. Menendez, however, like all managers of great enterprises, had his troubles: “Sheep farming is very profitable,” said he, “but we have one great difficulty--it is to secure good help.” This ought to be a cheerful notice to the unemployed thousands of Europe and America, but it should be accepted with a proper appreciation of the life and work in question. A Patagonian shepherd lives the life of a wild man. In the saddle he roams about on the pampas with his sheep, and at night he makes camp like an Indian. But there are many men who enjoy just such a life, and for such there is plenty of room in this region. The usual pay is about thirty dollars (gold) per month, but expenses are next to nothing, and an additional income is added to the regular pay by the products of hunting, such as ostrich feathers, guanaco skins, etc. The men at present employed are mostly Scotch shepherds, but some of the best ranchmen have been made from ordinary seamen. In the newer methods of shearing and other improved mechanical contrivances, machinists and other artisans are in demand. Many of the men who have come here as workmen are now ranch-owners themselves, and few who have once tasted the elixir of pampa life ever leave it again for the noise and the strife and the gilded glitter of the upper world. When we again mounted our horses to return, we were somewhat disposed to lay aside polar exploration and become sheep farmers, but this idea was soon dissipated by our efforts to return to the _Belgica_. The purple twilight was just deepening into the darker shades of night as we left the little group of buildings which constitute the headquarters of the Menendez ranch. The horses seemed more than ever opposed to their inexperienced riders, and our discomfort was such that we did not hurry them. We preferred to leave to them the selection of the path, and the rate of progress, while we drank in the sharp antarctic air and enjoyed the glory of the night scene. It was nearly midnight when we reached our canoe. Here we found our companions impatiently waiting for us, some seated on boulders, others stretched out on the grass, and a few chatting with the shepherds in the nearest hut. But we were somewhat dejected as we gazed upon the sight before us; the water had run out with the tide to such an extent as to leave our boat high and dry some three or four hundred feet from the nearest launching-place. Every foot of this distance had on it a covering of a soft semi-liquid mixture of clay, sand, small stones, and shellfish. The _Belgica_ must start with the tide at daybreak, and her whistles were already tooting the signal to hasten on board. To wait for the tide was impossible, so we started our canoe over the debris. If the surface had been tar it could not have offered more resistance, nor could it have caused more discomfort. After an hour of almost superhuman effort we reached the water, but we were covered with slime and mud and