Being in the country, and moreover
tired, we retire for the night at a reasonable
hour. We have to make the best of
our extemporised couches, for our luggage
and furniture are yet on their way, and probably
will not put in an appearance before
morning. Some of the guests, therefore,
betake themselves to swinging hammocks,
while others occupy Don José's catres—a
species of folding bedstead not unlike an
open apple-stall with a canvas tray.

Not until we have fairly taken possession
of our temporary couches, do we fully
appreciate Doña Cachita's forethought in
providing many yards of mosquito netting.
I have always dreaded a country life, no
matter in what part of the world, on account
of strange vermin. A shudder runs
through me at the mention of earwigs and
caterpillars; but give me a hatful of those
interesting creatures for bedfellows in preference
to a cot in Cuba without a mosquito
net!

What is that sweet creature crawling
cautiously towards me along the brick
floor, looking like a black star fish with a
round body?

"Oh it is nothing, massa," says my black
valet. "I kill him in a minute, massa."
Which he does with his naked heel. Only
an araña peluda; in plain English, a spider
of gigantic proportions, whose lightest
touch will draw you like a poultice. I
let the cucurrachos pass, for I recognise
in them my old familiar friend the cockroach,
whose worst crime is to leave an
offensive smell on every object he touches.
Neither do I object to the grillo, a green
thing which hops all over the room; for
I know it to be but a specimen of magnified
grasshopper, who will surely cease
its evening gambols as soon as the light is
extinguished. But oh, by Santiago or any
other saint you please, I would have you
crush, mangle, kill, and utterly exterminate,
that dark brown long-tailed brute,
from whose body branch all kinds of
horrible limbs, the most conspicuous of
which are a pair of claws which resemble
the handles of a jeweller's nippers.
Only an alacran, is it? Son of the
tropics, it may sound mildly to thee in thy
romantic dialect, but in the language of
Miamo Darwin, let me tell you, it is nothing
more nor less than a scurrilous scorpion,
whose gentlest sting is worse than
the stings of twenty wasps. If the brother
of that now squashed brute should drop
upon me, daring my repose, from that roof
(which I perceive is of guano leaf, and admirably
adapted for scorpion gymnastics),
my appearance at the breakfast-table tomorrow,
and for days after, will be hideous;
to say nothing of my personal discomfort
and fever. Now, a mosquito net stretched
over you on its frame, effectually ensures
you against such midnight visitors; and,
if well secured on every side, will even
serve to ward off the yard and a half of
culebra or snake, which at certain seasons
is wont to pervade your bedroom floor at
night.

I am awakened at an early hour by Don
Miguel's live stock, who hold their musical
matinée in the big yard exactly under
my open window. The bloated and presumptuous
turkey-cock, guanaja, is leading
tenor in the poultry programme. First
fiddle is the gallo Inglés, or English rooster.
Then come the double-bass pigs, who have
free access to the balcony and parlour. A
chorus of hens, chickens, and guinea fowls,
varies the entertainment; while the majestic
perjuil, or peacock, perched on his
regal box, the guano roof, applauds the
performance below in plaintive, and heart-rending
tones. Before I am up and stirring,
a dark domestic brings me a tiny cup of
boiling coffee and a paper cigarette, and
waits for further orders. Don Miguel proposes
a stroll (he tells me) through his
grounds. Our horses are soon led out and
we bestride them, with an empty sack for .a
saddle and a bit of rope for a bridle. Better
riders than the Cubans I never saw in
an equestrian circus, and steadier and
easier going animals than Cuban horses, I
have never ridden on a "round-about" at
a country fair.

We come upon a sorry sight at one of
the secaderos, or coffee-drying platforms.
A young mulatto woman is undergoing
"veinte cinco" on a short ladder: in other
words, is being flogged. They have tied
her, face downward, by her wrists and
ancles, to a slanting ladder, while an overseer
and a muscular assistant in turn administer
two dozen lashes with a knotted
thong. She receives her punishment with
low groans; when she catches a glimpse of
the spectators she craves our intercession.

"Perdona miamo!"

The overseer laughs, and, turning to his
visitors, offers his weapon with a polite invitation
that one of us will try our skill.
We all appeal to Don Miguel, and, at our
earnest request, that humane gentleman
orders his mayoral to let the culprit off.
Smarting salt and aguardiente are then
rubbed in for healing purposes, and the