mules and loosed the cinches of our saddles, that the animals might rest while we stretched our legs.

Presently the old señora, our hostess, called us and we filed into her shack-one of the best houses in the town-and seated ourselves around a small home-made table; the chairs were home-made, with seats of rushes, which grow plentifully here; and on the table were five tin plates and one tin cup of water. The floor of the cabin was Mother Earth. A litter of pigs grunted contentedly at our feet, and chickens scratched about the clay fireplace built upon a stone foundation, where the old woman was busily engaged slapping tortillas and baking them upon a stone griddle.

The tortilla is the ancient Indian bread of Mexico. Its only constituent is Indian corn (maize), which the women soak in lime-water until the kernels are at the point of bursting, then wash thoroughly. until it is free from lime, when they grind it by rubbing it on a large block of stone, specially cut for the purpose, with a smaller stone which they hold in the hands. The operation looks very much like rubbing clothes on a washboard, and is a laborious and tedious one. The lime renders the corn dough adhesive, like wheat flour dough, and it is easily patted between the hands into cakes the size and shape of an

ordinary griddle cake, and is baked upon a thin stone griddle. Though no salt or leaven is added, fresh tortillas are exceedingly palatable.

The one other food mainstay is frijolesordinary beans. They are boiled to a mush, and, with a liberal quantity of lard, are warmed, as required, in a flat earthen dish that answers for a frying pan. The very poor people do not always have the luxury of frijoles, and when they do have them cannot always afford the lard.

We were served with frijoles and tortillas, and an earthen dish of exceedingly hot chili sauce.

"I have no knife and fork," said Randall when we were seated. "Ask her for them, Gates. She's forgotten them."

"Knives and forks!" exclaimed Gates. "They don't have luxuries like knives and forks here. The only household utensils that this woman has you see before you."

Gates took a tortilla in his fingers, broke it in two, shaped one piece into a scoop, pushed the frijoles on it with the other, and ate. We followed his example.

"Verily man's wants are few when he doesn't know any better," remarked Randall, between efforts to get the beans safely to his mouth.

It was six o'clock when we reached Navarrete, the next town beyond Libertad, where we were to stop for the night. It

seemed to me I never was so weary in my life as when we finally halted in front of our hotel, and I was so lame I could scarcely dismount from my horse. Emerson had given us a glowing description of this hotel. He told us it was the best appointed hotel in this section of Tepic Territory, and that here we could enjoy all the luxuries the country afforded. So our expectations were pitched to a high degree. But when we viewed the hostelry they fell with a thump. It was nothing more nor less than a shack similar to those at Libertad, but on a somewhat larger scale. The "dining saloon," as Emerson jocularly called it, was enclosed by a fence, and the entrance was through a gate. A hog was eating its supper of corn under the table, chickens were going to roost just behind it, and two or three parrots, perched on a bar under the eaves, were swearing volubly in Mexican Spanish.

We were cordially greeted by two señoritas one of them with a round, bright face and an old señora. Gates gave them an order for supper, while the mozos piled our saddles and baggage in one end of the room, or rather, shed, for that is the most dignified name it deserves. A Mexican whose horse was standing outside was finishing his meal. He paid his dues, looked at his six-shooter to see that it was properly loaded, and then took a Win

chester rifle from the saddle boot and filled the magazine with cartridges, remarking as he did so, that he had to ride to Santiago that night, and there were bad men in the country. As he mounted and trotted off, I noticed that he also carried a sword.

The bedroom-there was but one to accommodate all comers-had an earthen floor, and the canvas cots were arranged in rows, like beds in a hospital ward, each having its canopy of cheese-cloth. We looked carefully under the sheet to scat away any scorpions or centipedes that might be lying for us, before we undressed and crawled in, leaving our guns within reach, for we were strangers in a strange land, and a native had shown us by example that it was a wise precaution to have our arms ready.

The village of Navarrete has a population of five hundred people. It is the center of the hacienda Navarrete, a hacienda containing upwards of two hundred and ten thousand acres, and owned by a native Mexican to whom it has probably been handed down, through generations. It is hard for one to realize the immense territory embraced within the boundaries of this single ranch-three hundred and twenty-eight square miles, or an area equal to nearly one-third of the State of Rhode Island. It is only an example, however, of many of the large landed

estates of the republic-some larger, some smaller.

The ranch house is the only building of substantial construction on the place, and is of brick and mortar. All the others are the flimsy, thatched-roof huts typical of the tierra caliente. Libertad and several other small Indian villages are also situated upon the Hacienda Navarrete, and the people who inhabit them are little better than serfs.

The soil is rich, deep, and practically inexhaustible. Fertilization is never thought of, and is unnecessary. On the various elevations almost anything can

pack mules carry the produce to market, but so little of the land is cleared and under cultivation that the tilled portion is hardly noticeable. The greater part is overrun with a rank, wild growth, through which long-horned cattle range and are guarded from wild beasts by Indian herdsmen.

Land is a heritage and not a commodity to the Mexican, and unless he is pressed for funds it is not usual for him to offer his estate for sale. Of course, a liberal offer and the glitter of gold are always strong arguments which go far to overcome his prejudices. At the present time from two to four pesos an acre, to include ap

be grown, from bananas to corn, coffee and rubber. Pineapples grow wild, limes, lemons and oranges are abundant in the uncultivated state. Corn yields two and sometimes three crops a year without irrigation, and nearly every stalk bears two large ears. We saw some remarkable fields of the ripening grain.

Tobacco, corn, beans and a little cotton are practically the only crops to which any attention whatever is given, and the methods of planting and harvesting are the crudest. None of the modes of modern scientific farming is known. The forked stick of ancient Egypt is the plow, the machete is the cultivator. Hundreds of

purtenances, is deemed an average valuation; but it is possible to buy land only in large parcels, of many thousand acres, at that price.

They told us that two years ago the Hacienda Navarrete was offered for sale for five hundred thousand pesos. Now the asking price-unless it has advanced again-is one million pesos. This hacienda pays its owner an income of fifty thousand pesos a year, and he gives it absolutely no personal attention, leaving every detail to his head mozo. The mozo sends the cattle and produce to market, and turns over the proceeds to his master, who does not look at the accounts, and cares nothing

about them so long as his expensive habits and appetites are satisfied. A gentleman of my acquaintance asked him once if he did not think a large part of the proceeds from the hacienda were stolen.

"Oh, no," he answered, "there is no occasion for my head mozo to steal. I pay him liberally for managing the hacienda." "How much do you pay him?" was asked.

"Forty-five pesos a month," was the reply.

Forty-five pesos! Twenty-two and a half dollars a month to manage that stupendous estate! I wonder if that mozo steals? Perhaps not; but honesty, under

ment. Some of the more ignorant hacienda owners gave no attention whatever to the edict, and theoretically they lost their properties, to which they presumably had defective titles. In conformance with the terms of the edict these were at once listed as government lands, and offered by the land office for sale.

An acquaintance of mine purchased from the government a tract of these lands approximating fifty thousand acres. When he went to claim his property, he found it in possession of an old Mexican who claimed ownership in spite of the government grant. The Mexican had lived upon it all his life, and it had been in his family

the most favorable circumstances, is not one of the shining virtues of a Mexican

mozo.

Real estate titles in Mexico were formerly much involved and exceedingly unstable. To cure defects, President Diaz, a few years ago, issued an edict requiring that all titles be submitted for confirmation by himself or his authorized deputies. This confirmation amounted to a new grant from the government, which was unassailable for any cause. Titles not submitted within a specified period reverted to the government, and the land covered by them became a part of the public domain, to be thrown open to denounce

for many generations. It was stocked with several thousand head of cattle, under the charge of cowboys who carried revolvers. The Mexican and his grown sons also carried revolvers. When my acquaintance demanded possession, the Mexican informed him that the land was his, title or no title, government grant or no grant, and he intended to hold it against all comers, and he and his men would shoot anybody found trespassing upon it. My friend discreetly retired to the land office, and demanded to be put in possession of the property for which he had paid. Here he was told that the government had undertaken only to sell him a sound title,