The train, as though itself entirely taken aback by these new aspects of Nature, has been proceeding at little beyond human walking pace. Now it has drawn up by the side of a modest building and a few surrounding huts that are almost smothered in the verdure. Eden station! The sight of the place is far less incongruous than the sound. As a matter of fact the valley itself is well named. No spot could better endow with its glamour the simple life that endures until the inevitable boredom leads to the death of innocence. Nevertheless, the railway company should reserve special accommodation for the garden. Let the traveller proceed to Margate or Southend as he likes. But a third-class ticket to Eden! The thing is inconceivable, yet it is done every day. The advent of the train, however, affords a harvest to at least one inhabitant of this secluded and fair corner. An aged negro, who was undoubtedly born a slave across the Brazilian frontier, is slowly hobbling the length of the train collecting toll from the passengers as he goes. In South America are two professions that stand apart from all the rest. Failing the status of a millionaire, become a beggar by all means! As regards a profitable occupation, not one of the intermediate walks of life can equal the extremes at the social poles. That of politician is perhaps nearest akin to both; but, intrinsically, the phrase is transitory, since a rapid absorption at one end or the other is practically inevitable. The aged negro is collecting his dues with grave complacency. A general dealer in receipts, his profits are by no means restricted to mere cash. Business in centavos is amazingly brisk; but so are the transactions in cigarettes, cigars, fruit, and morsels of food. Ere the train starts the benignity has grown deep upon the old man's face. When the place is lonely and still once more he will totter back to his tiny reed hut, with its insignificant patch of maize, and will smoke, and eat, and drink, in senile enjoyment of the lengthy holiday that separates his tri-weekly half-hours of work. He may thank the God of beggars that he was born in a Latin land. The train is moving onwards once again, and the bold grey cliffs and bluffs recede as the valley widens. Although the first full beauty of the scene has lost by the expansion, the wealth of colour remains. The forest trees for the most part are flecked with brilliant yellow, while the surface of the swamps that now cover the centre of the valley are thickly spangled with the pure white of their own broad blossoms. [Illustration: OXEN DRAWING RAILWAY COACH.] [Illustration: BEFORE THE FAIR: TACUAREMBÓ. To face p. 186.]