CHAPTER VII

THE BACKBONE OF THE CONTINENT

The trip across the continent of South America is now made very comfortably by train. The start is from the very pleasant station of the State Railway of Valparaiso. For a number of miles the tracks run almost along the water’s edge, and thus afford many beautiful views of the blue bay of Valparaiso. The trains on this road are very comfortable, for the Chilean State Railway is one of the very few railroads in South America that provide Pullman cars for their patrons. After leaving Viña del Mar the line soon abandons the bay, and threads its way through the coast range of mountains. One gets many glimpses of the higher Andes through the passes, and there are also green glens where advantage has been taken of the running water for irrigation. Cacti become very abundant, and one is reminded of the plateaus of Mexico, for these silent sentinels seem to keep watch over the herds of sheep and goats that feed on the slopes. Any one who has seen Southern Chile first will notice the difference as soon as the train leaves Santiago. The progressive dryness of the climate has a pronounced effect on the vegetation. The cacti are frequently from twelve to fifteen feet in height, and their entire surface is covered with stout, curved spines.

After creeping along the shore and then through a valley, the railroad soon joins the Aconcagua River, which leaps and foams along, thus forming a series of diminutive cascades. In the winter time the change in temperature is very marked as the upward climb continues. In places the valley spreads out to quite generous proportions, and one will see _haciendas_ that are well kept up and which show evidence of careful cultivation. Contrast is afforded by the sight of oxen drawing one-handled, wooden ploughs. How powerful must have been the Moorish influence in Spain, for these ploughs are exact duplicates of the plough of ancient Chaldea and Egypt, which was carried along the coast of Barbary into Spain, and left there as a heritage to the Spaniards, who introduced it into the New World. The general impression left with the traveller over this route, between Valparaiso and Santiago, is one of comparative barrenness and desolation.

Viña del Mar, Limache and Quillota are three quite important towns that are passed _en route_, the latter two of which have some important manufacturing establishments. Llai Llai (pronounced Yi-yi) is about half way, and this is the diverging point for the two routes. One leads to the capital, and the other is the continuation of the transcontinental railroad. Llai Llai is a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants, and is situated about twenty-six hundred and twenty-five feet above sea level. A number of fruit sellers are sure to be at the station, and one who does not purchase a few of the delicious pears or peaches, that are sold so reasonably, misses a great treat. They are grown in a rich valley below which is a sort of agricultural Arcadia.

The through cars are switched to another track, a different engine is attached to them and the traveller is soon bound for Los Andes. The journey does not differ greatly from that already described. The city of San Felipe is the largest town passed and it is situated amidst well cultivated fields. It is a city of about twelve thousand. Soon afterwards the train reaches Santa Rosa de Los Andes, which marks a break in the journey. Here it is necessary to change trains, and frequently to stay over night. It is at the foothills of the Andes, and one can find many pleasant little excursions into the foothills here, if he has the inclination to tarry for a few days. The climate is good, and the physical wants of the traveller are very well looked after at the hotel. A few Americans will be found there, for the railroad is operated by that nationality.

If it is the summer time one will find Los Andes a very pleasant little place, with quite an abundance of vegetation around it. The altitude is about twenty-six hundred feet, which gives it a delightful climate. Fruits grow abundantly, and the fruit-canning industry has been considerably developed. This is in the province of Aconcagua, which contains some of the most notable elevations in the entire republic, and, in fact, in the entire world. This province is about as large as Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. In addition to the eastern boundary of lofty peaks there are numerous low hills, between which lie fertile valleys. Through the use of irrigation agriculture flourishes in these valleys, and there is a considerable production of grains and wine. There are also a number of silver and copper mines in the province. San Felipe is the capital, and is distant about seventy-eight miles from both Santiago and Valparaiso.

“_Vamonos_,” says the conductor of the narrow gauge train, as it pulls out of the station on its way to the limits of Chilean territory. One will begin to take notice of his fellow-travellers. The passengers will be found to be of many nationalities, and of many shades of colour, for, since the railway journey is continuous, fewer people take the much longer route via the Straits of Magellan. There will be Chilenos, with big hats and _ponchos_, and Chilenas, whose faces are coated with powder or paste. There will be priests in beaver hats and black gowns, which reach to their feet. Soldiers in uniforms modelled after the German army are quite likely to be companions as far as the border. Americans, British, French, Germans, Italians and Argentinians—all of these nationalities go to make up a potpourri of nations and national characteristics. As the start is generally made in the morning, one sees the stars disappear and the dawn break over the mountains. The gray skies turn to a steel-blue, then to a rosy pink, until, at last, the highest peaks are illuminated by the rays of the sun. One may leave Los Andes clad in its summer plumage, with myriads of butterflies and moths flitting about, but these characteristics soon disappear, for the upward climb begins almost immediately. In the next thirty-five miles this rack and pinion road climbs upward more than seven thousand feet. It is a much steeper ascent than on the Argentine side, for it requires three times the distance to reach the same level on that slope.

The track follows the course of the Aconcagua River. This river is at no time a great stream, yet the total volume of water carried down in its swift-flowing current must be considerable. Many glimpses of the simple natives, and their primitive means of conveyance, are afforded on the ancient highway that threads the same valley. On the mountainside an occasional mud hut may be seen around and over which climb creepers and flowering vines. The scenery is beautiful and full of variations. Every turn of the tortuous track reveals a new scene of beauty, and there are few railway journeys in the world that will afford a greater variety of views than this overland route to Buenos Aires. The mountains grow from grand to grander, as if Ossa had been piled upon Pelion. When sunlight and shadow play upon the rock the contrasts are dazzling and the senses gladdened. There is a prodigality of colours such as even the Yosemite, the Grand Cañon or the Dolomites do not surpass. Guardia Viega, the “old guard,” is one of the stations, and is so named because it was for two centuries a guard station on the Antiguo Camino, or ancient road between the two republics. The vegetation becomes scanter as the altitude increases, but, scant as it is, it is a pleasing change to the traveller coming from the other direction. Juncal, which for several years was the terminus, is passed. One of the most beautiful views afforded is that of the narrow gorge, known as the Salto del Soldado, the Soldier’s Leap, through which the tempestuous waters of the river foam and toss. There is a tradition connected with this strange freak of nature of which the Chileans are proud. During the war of independence it is said that a Chilean pursued by the enemy, leaped across this chasm and saved his life. Owing to the width it is an almost impossible tale to believe.

Just beyond Juncal is a beautiful little lake, which is as opalescent and translucent as any of the lakes of Switzerland, and several thousand feet higher. It is the Lago del Inca, the Lake of the Incas. Pure as crystal, and clear as an unclouded sky, this little body of water rests tranquilly amidst as harsh and severe a setting as one could well find. Masses of rock seem poised on ledges ready to project themselves down into valleys with destruction in their path. The mad gods who formed these eternal peaks must have paused for a moment in their work in order to add this one touch of real beauty to the landscape.

Here one may also see the huge condors, flying at such heights that they look no larger than a swallow. The glass will sometimes reveal others that can scarcely be distinguished with the naked eye. They sail and circle around in the rarefied air with scarcely a flap of the wing. In the winter time the condor may be found near the coast, but in summer they always return to the highest Andean peaks, where they rear their young. The eggs are deposited in lofty clefts or caverns, where no form of animal life exists that might destroy the young birds. A young condor during the first year clings to the parent bird, for its body is too big for its wings. This royal bird figures on the national escutcheon of Chile as an emblem of strength and independence. The Indians surround it with many legends, and some of them believe that the souls of the lost enter the bodies of the condor and are thus poised between heaven and earth, so as to see the glories of both and be able to enjoy neither, like the doom of Tantalus.

At last Caracoles, the name given to the little station at the Chilean end of the international railroad, is reached, at an elevation of a little more than ten thousand feet above sea level. The tunnel is just about the same length as the altitude, for it is ten thousand three hundred and eighty-five feet from entrance to exit. Near the centre of this hole bored through the Andean rock the international boundary is passed, and, when the train emerges at Las Cuevas, the other terminus, the traveller catches his first glimpse of Argentina. It is a scene of vast desolation that meets his gaze. It is a picture of solitude, with nothing to relieve it in the way of vegetation. The vivid colourings of the stratas of rock and the white summits of the many peaks in sight, however, make it a scene of wild glory that uplifts the soul at the majesty of nature. One stands aghast at the marvellous richness of colouring that is revealed on every hand.

The traveller may be thankful that he has not been obliged to traverse this pass in the winter time. Nothing can surpass these vast ridges clad in their winter dress. White and cold, they form a veritable valley of desolation. It is the cold of death, the white mantle of annihilation—something that the brain can scarcely compass. The feeling of solitude in the midst of the whiteness everywhere almost overwhelms the traveller with despair. In places the snow is frequently as much as fifteen feet in depth, deep enough to bury a horse and rider. Sudden storms are likely to overtake the traveller, and he would be snowed in in one of the _casuchas_. These are shelters that were built at intervals along the pass for the protection of travellers. They are dome-shaped structures which remind one of lime-kilns. They have a small door, but no windows, and will accommodate as many as twenty people at a time. The interior has a brick floor and is absolutely bare. Although protected from the weather, woe be to the traveller obliged to spend a day or two there with a group of _arrieros_, for filth is everywhere and the stench is almost overpowering.

Although fewer travellers ventured over this pass in the midst of winter, the mail service continued uninterruptedly, and there was seldom a day that some one did not attempt the crossing. A _capitas_, who was generally a man with a little capital, would undertake to carry the mails or other freight over the pass at a fixed price. He would then engage his force of porters as cheaply as possible, agreeing to furnish them with board and lodging so long as they remained with him. As time was not specified in the mail contract, if a traveller came along the _capitas_ would dump the mails and carry his baggage at an exorbitant price. Everything was done up in packages weighing about sixty pounds. Some of the porters would even undertake to carry two of these—a terrible strain on a rough road. It is little wonder that this and unrestrained dissipation usually gave these men a short life. Sometimes they slid over a precipice, or were hurled to their doom by a falling stone. There are many graves of those who met an untimely end along this route, and it seems almost marvellous that they are not more numerous. After the highest point was passed the porters would toboggan down the slopes, seated on a sheepskin and guiding themselves with pointed staffs. In this way the descent was quickly accomplished. The packages were simply tumbled down, and oftentimes reached the bottom in a very dilapidated condition.

The Trasandino Argentino Railway threads its way out through the valley of the Uspallata, and follows a small stream which gradually becomes larger as little rivulets of melted snow join it. It soon becomes more of a stream, and is given the name of Rio (river) Mendoza. At a distance of less than a dozen miles the station called Puente del Inca is reached, which is so named because of a natural bridge of stratified rock at that place, which is very similar to the Natural Bridge of Virginia. Underneath it bubble up boiling waters which are claimed to have great medicinal value. It is said that the Incas in pre-Spanish times knew of the value of these waters, and their chiefs came here to receive the benefits of its curative waters. Near here one catches a glimpse of a marvellous freak of nature, called the Cerro de los Penitentes, the Ridge of the Penitents. The scattered rocky peaks and points standing up through the sloping debris of the ascent, with their remarkable imitations of toiling wayfarers, must have greatly impressed the Spanish pioneers when they first came upon this scene.

The route continues a picture of desolation, caused by volcanic upheavals and the erosion of countless ages. The Mendoza River, coloured by the various metals of the rocks over which it pours, tumbles along near the railway as both follow one pass after another. Las Vacas, Uspallata, La Invernada and other small stations are passed. About thirty miles before Mendoza is reached a change begins, and poplar and larch trees, alfalfa fields and the grape enliven the scene. Irrigation is utilized and the melted snows cause the land to bloom with remarkable fertility. At last the train runs into the creditable station of Mendoza, and the second stage in the transcontinental journey is ended.

At Mendoza a change is made to the broad gauge trains of the Buenos Aires and Pacific Railway, which will carry the traveller over the remaining leagues of the journey. After leaving the irrigated lands of this neighbourhood, another stretch of miserable scrub land is crossed before the level pampas are entered. From there to Buenos Aires the route is over as level land as is to be found on the earth’s surface. Hour after hour the train rolls over these pampas, past small towns and through great stretches of grain and alfalfa. At last, after about a day and a half’s journey, the train enters the suburbs of Buenos Aires, and finally, with a shrill shriek, rolls into the Retiro Station, which is the end of the trip.

Grand and wonderful as is the ride through and across the Andes by railroad, the traveller has missed one of the most striking features of these solitudes. Almost immediately over the tunnel, and nearly three thousand feet higher, stands the famous statue, known as the Christ of the Andes. This statue was erected in 1904 as a symbol of perpetual peace between the two neighbouring nations. It was cast in bronze from the cannon of the two nations, which had been purchased through fear of impending war. Its location is on the new international boundary line that had just been established by arbitration. Near it is a sign with the words “CHILE” on one side, and “ARGENTINA” on the other side.

The figure of Christ is twenty-six feet in height. In one hand it holds the emblem of the cross, while the other is extended in a blessing, and as if uttering the one magic word “Peace.” On one side is a tablet with the inscription: “Sooner shall these mountains crumble into dust than the people of Argentina and Chile break the peace to which they have pledged themselves at the feet of Christ the Redeemer.” On another side is the inscription:

“He is our Peace Who hath made both One.”

The Cumbre, as this ridge is called, is the highest point on the old trail. Travellers and baggage were transported over it by mule-back or in carriages, if the almost springless vehicles could be called by such a name, during the summer. It is a very zigzag trail up which the carriages wound, where as many as twenty twists and turns can be counted. On the downward trip the horses ran and jumped, until the timorous traveller began to have visions of disaster. Accidents were rare, however, and seldom was a vehicle overturned. Corners were turned on two wheels, with only a few inches between the outside wheels and the edge of the precipice.

“The clouds have voices, and the rivers pour Their floods in thunder down to ocean’s floor;— The hills alone mysterious silence keep.”

One of the most striking aspects which impress the traveller crossing the Andes is the terribly bleak and desolate outlook that they present. Blades of grass here and there, or perhaps a few stunted shrubs, are the only signs of vegetation, for of trees there are none. There seems to be no tree line, as in most mountains. A huge expanse of yellow sand and stone spreads out everywhere with peaks rising up on every side in clearly defined and rugged stratification, whose many-coloured hues are almost bewildering to the eye. Great torrents flow down the middle of the valleys, the water being of a dull brackish hue. The fording of these streams is a very dangerous task for the explorer, as the torrents are exceedingly rapid and full of deep, treacherous holes.

On either side rise high peaks, and the traveller is always interested in knowing the names of these peaks. If he asks the average native which is Aconcagua, or which Tupungato, he is likely to be misinformed. There is to the inexperienced mountain traveller a disappointment when he finally has one of these lofty peaks pointed out, and which he knows to be above twenty thousand feet in height, because he has expected, perhaps, to see an isolated peak rearing its snowy head to the sky for a distance of four miles or more above the level on which he stands. The traveller forgets that he himself is above the sea level almost half that distance, before he gains a good clear view of the higher peak. It is well established that Aconcagua is the loftiest peak of the Andes, but it is a little uncertain whether Tupungato or the Mercedario is the second in height.

Ten thousand miles of majestic mountains stretch from Alaska to Cape Horn—the grandest range of mountains that can be found on the earth’s surface. Throughout this series of connected mountains, from the wilds of Alaska to those of Patagonia, and including the tropical plateaus of Ecuador, there are many peaks that pierce the ethereal blue of the skies. These are generally termed the Sierras, which is the Spanish word for “saw,” and the name is applied to mountains because of the fancied resemblance of their outlines to that of the carpenter’s tool. A dim knowledge of the majesty of mountains is obtained from the smaller ranges of North America, such as the Appalachian Mountains, but Mt. McKinley, highest of North American mountains, must yield in majesty to a number of peaks in the lofty Andean range of mountains.

The lure of altitude seems to have caught at the spirit of man from early times, and led him struggling up almost unscalable peaks. In recent years the fascination of mountain climbing has become the romance of geography. During the last half century daring explorers have conquered more mountains, and gathered more geological data, than in all the previous centuries. Many lives have been lost by devotees of this science, while pitting skill and strength against nature and her secrets. It has not been long since the elevations of the southern half of this continent were an unknown land; some lofty peaks were unexplored and unnamed, and only dim suggestions of their majesty and splendour had reached the scientific world, but they now hold an interest second to none. The loftiest peaks in the world, excepting only the Himalayas, are found along the western coast of South America. They are in truth and reality the mountain monarchs of the western world. In travelling along the west coast of South America by steamer the serrated backbone of the continent is ever in sight, but its hazy outlines are at such a distance that they give but a dim idea of their real height from the steamer.

It remained for European mountain climbers, men who received their schooling in the Alps, to first conquer these lofty giants of nature. Chimborazo (20,498 ft.), the “white watcher of the western seas,” was the first to yield its topmost secrets to Edward Whymper, who fought his way up the rugged snow-clad slopes to the very top. Next he conquered Cotopaxi (19,615 ft.), and has given this volcano the following recommendation: “Cotopaxi is an ideal volcano. It comports itself, volcanically speaking, in a regular and well-behaved manner. It is not one of the provoking sort—exploding in paroxysms and going to sleep directly afterwards. It is in a state of perpetual activity, and has been so ever since it had a place in history.” Could any volcano in the world show a stronger recommendation? It is certainly an exemplary exponent of the volcanic art. The explorer spent a night on the very edge of the crater, peering into the cavernous recesses that belched forth fire and smoke, and must have been under its hypnotic influence when inditing the above.

Going farther down the coast one reaches the mighty peaks of Peru and Bolivia. An American woman, Miss Annie S. Peck, has scaled Mt. Huascaran (22,051 ft.), and holds the unique record of having climbed higher than any other woman. It was an achievement that deservedly brought her great honour. Mt. Illimani (21,490 ft.) is the loftiest peak in Bolivia. It means “bright condor,” according to the generally accepted derivation. Its frozen crest was conquered by an Englishman, Sir Martin Conway, and the Union Jack was planted on the very summit. This mountain, and its neighbour, Mt. Sorata (21,490 ft.), were worshipped as gods by the Incas. A band of superstitious natives, on learning his intention to invade the sanctuary of their god, who dwelt on Illimani, made an attempt to murder him, but did not succeed in finding the party. Their tradition asserts that a great cross of gold was planted by the god on the summit, and they were afraid these strangers would carry it away. At the foot of these mountains lies Lake Titicaca, the sacred lake of the Incas.

The hardships endured on these climbs are almost indescribable. The intense cold and the rarefied air almost overcome the reserve vitality. The weakening effect of diminished atmospheric pressure is so enervating that exertion can only be made a few steps at a time. Headache, nausea and blood running from the nose and ears are the more violent effects. It is almost impossible to keep the feet from being frost-bitten, and they have to be rubbed occasionally to restore circulation. Says Mr. Conway: “I asked myself more than once whether the game was worth the candle, for there was something so cold and unsympathetic about the gloom and the ice and the bare rocks, that for a time it weighed like a nightmare upon my spirits.” The exhaustion is so great that it is almost impossible to enjoy the triumph of success. Speaking of this the same explorer says: “The moment was one of satisfaction, in that our toil ceased; but we had no sense of triumph, nor was there breath enough left in any of us for an exclamation of joy in the hour of victory. Nothing was said or done for several minutes; we just sat down and rested.” As compensations, however, there are frequently magnificent cloud effects. Out of the white sea of snow there mount, under the uplift of hot air currents, great towers of cloud, which rise high into the air like the smoke-discharge from a volcano. Huge caves and cloud avenues are formed, wherein dark-blue shadows gather, with occasionally a high mountain top peeping forth like the foundation stone of a gigantic cloud castle. Then one’s vision is so broadened that he seems to stand on the very top of the world itself.

In “Argentina and Her People of To-day,” the writer has given an account of an ascent of Aconcagua by Mr. E. A. Fitzgerald’s party, and in this work some mention will be made of the conquest of Tupungato by the same party. This mountain can be seen clearly outlined against the sky from the Pass of the Cumbre, although it is distant fully thirty miles. The route lies down through great masses of fallen rock, the stones being on an average twice the size of a man’s head. The stones are hard and unworn by the forces of nature, presenting a surface of sharp, jagged edges. It is an extremely difficult pass to traverse because of these rocks and danger of slipping, which in many cases would hurl the traveller many hundreds of feet below. Sudden and violent storms also rage around this mountain, which renders the work of climbing still more difficult and dangerous.

The distances, as in almost all mountain climbing, are very deceiving, and what oftentimes seems to be but the work of an hour may require many hours to accomplish. Terrific wind storms at times spring up, against which it is almost impossible for a man to stand, and this also adds to the dangers because of rocks which are sometimes hurled down the mountain sides. As the altitude increases the rarity of the atmosphere and the consequently intense cold render progress almost painful. It is necessary for the mountain climber to stop every few minutes to rest, as the cold and the wind and rare atmosphere all combine to exhaust the vitality. Three times Mr. Fitzgerald’s party attempted the ascent of Tupungato, and as many times were they compelled to abandon it. Bleeding at the nose, frozen extremities and weakness of the heart attacked the various members of the party, and compelled them to descend to lower altitudes. A fourth attempt, however, was more successful. Each failure had taught something, so that each effort was made under slightly better conditions and with better equipment.

Here is the description by Mr. Vines, as it appears in “The Highest Andes:” “I was on the summit of Tupungato at last, and all my efforts and disappointments were more than repaid. I stood on a great mound in shape like a pyramid, with a blunted top some two yards wide rising several hundred feet above the general surface of the dome. In the whole expanse of sky around over ocean and land I could not discern a single cloud. Only in the direction of the Pacific a haze hung over the mountains. In the brilliant air the spectacle that lay before us was one of vast extent and grandeur. Range upon range of mountains stretched away towards the great plain of Santiago, forty miles to the west. Far away, beyond the hills that almost seemed to lie at our feet, stretched the great waters of the Pacific, a tract of blue ocean sparkling to the horizon, and clearly visible, although the distance from Tupungato to the seacoast is not less than one hundred and thirty miles.

“The view from the top of Tupungato is in many ways even finer than that obtained from Aconcagua. The expanse of ocean visible toward the west is less vast, but there is ample compensation in the outlook over the great unknown plain on the eastern side. The Pampas of Argentina stretch almost without a break from our very feet to the South Atlantic Ocean. The Andes seem to rise up from Santiago in ever ascending gradations, until at last they culminate in the immense mass of Tupungato; behind, they fall brokenly away; the mountains disappear; and a country almost fen-like in its monotonous flatness succeeds. The only break on the Argentine side is that of the Sierra de la Plata, not many more than twenty miles to the northeast. On the Chilean side a score of dark peaks rear their heads, a sinister array of precipitous impossibilities from which any climber would turn away in despair. To the north and to the south the same great barriers arise. Looking along this distinct and sharp edged chain to the north and south it was hard to understand how any frontier question between the republics could come about.

“That Aconcagua was a high mountain we well knew. We had all suffered from its height, but, when near at hand, it was quite impossible to realize the vastness of its proportions. Not so from where we now stood on a pinnacle sixty miles away. I had long known it was over four thousand feet higher than any mountain within thirty miles of it, but it looked ten thousand feet higher as it reared its immense head and shoulders from amongst its brothers, like some huge rock projecting out of the waves of the sea. It stood before me without rival, even the great ridges of Juncal did not challenge it, although they were almost thirty miles nearer. Behind Aconcagua, but almost forty miles farther, and too far off for comparison, I could see the white slopes of Mercaderio.”

The guanaco and llama are animals which are peculiar to the Andean regions. The former is especially plentiful in Patagonia and the southern Andean ranges, and many of them are found in Southern Chile. To the natives it means food, garments and tents, so that it is hunted both for its meat and skin. Without the guanaco the question of existence would be a difficult one for those people to solve. The vicuña, which is found in Northern Chile and Bolivia, is of the same family but smaller and more beautiful. Its fur is very valuable and this animal is becoming scarce. The alpaca is still smaller but flocks of this animal are maintained as we herd sheep. The wool is almost as fine and soft as silk, and, after a year’s growth, becomes almost a foot long.

Of this animal family, which is closely allied to the camel, the most important is the llama. To one who has never seen the llama, except in a menagerie or “zoo,” its real usefulness is not apparent. Before the arrival of the Spaniards on the west coast this gentle animal was the only beast of burden known to the Inca races. Thousands upon thousands of these American camels were used by the natives in transportation on the plateaus and across the lofty mountains. Like the camel it can go for days without food or drink. Even to-day, with the introduction of the horse and mule, there are probably as many or more llamas in use than when Pizarro first landed on the shores of South America. It is to the Andean native what the reindeer is to the Lapp—milk and flesh for food, skin for garments, hair for cloth, sinews for thread, etc. Some are black, with pretty little white kids, while others are almost white and have black little llamas following them.

The llama is one of the proudest animals in the world. No matter where you see this aristocrat of quadrupeds he holds his head high up in the air, and looks out upon the earth as though he owned it. Unlike the camel the llama never sulks, although sometimes stubborn. I have seen camels grunt and groan as the loads were placed on their backs. They will sometimes snap viciously at whoever passes near, and at other times tears will flow down a camel’s cheeks like a baby’s, so it is said. The llama always carries his burden with a proud air, scanning the landscape as he goes, and pricking up his ears with interest at every new or strange thing. He will carry a load of just so much, about one hundred pounds. If a greater load is strapped on his back than he is accustomed to carry, the llama will neither grunt nor groan, but he calmly kneels down and will not move until the burden is lightened.

The llamas are the most common burden-bearing animals in Bolivia and on the high plateaus of Peru to-day. They will also be found in the extreme northern part of Chile on the Andean slopes. They form the great freight-carriers in that portion of the Andes, but cannot be worked successfully at a lower altitude than two thousand feet. They are never seen as near the coast as Lima, the Peruvian capital. One will see llama trains every day in La Paz, or the other towns of Bolivia, and herds of these animals feeding on the plains around Lake Titicaca are a common sight. They are principally used in the carrying of ore from the mines to the smelters or nearest railway station. These little animals, which are said to have the head of a camel, the body of a sheep and the legs of a deer, are only about four and one-half feet high and are really beautiful creatures. They are gentle when well treated, and become very fond of their masters. The Indians pet them and talk to them much as though they were human beings. They sometimes dye the wool on the backs in different colours, and tie bright-coloured ribbons through holes which they make in the llamas’ ears. The wool of the llama is much coarser than that of sheep, but one can see the Indian women spinning this wool into threads, and then weaving it into cloth in many places. It can easily be used in the coarse garments worn by these people. If offended the llama has a curious habit of spitting on the offender, which is rather disagreeable, as I know from experience. As the llama is a cud-chewing animal it seems to have this material always ready for such occasions.