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310 shelves of the mountains are some of the finest estates in the world. One of these haciendas lies eleven thousand feet above the sea. Herds of cattle feed in the pastures far from any human habitation.

From many points the traveler looks down into some deep gorge of the Sierra Madré, the home of a laughing mountain-stream. He sees far below him, perhaps on a level with the sea, a bit of tierra caliente dropped into a seam of the rocky mass, rejoicing in the warmth and luxuriance of the perpetual spring which is possible in such shelter. From some cabin down there the Indians come toiling up laden with luscious fruits to sell at the nearest railroad station—oranges golden bright in a pretty home-made basket which goes with the fruit, great bunches of bananas, pineapples rich and melting, at three cents apiece, and other fruits which the sunny South has so entirely monopolized that they are unknown to us. The venders make a picture to remember—copper-colored faces, heavy, straight black hair and dark, melancholy eyes. The white cotton garments of the men and their big straw hats are fashions centuries old, but the bright-colored woolen blanket (serape) over the left shoulder and the long cigar are Spanish innovations. The women wear short calico dresses and a small scarf (called a reboza) of silk or cotton, fringed at the ends, wrapped about the head and the shoulders. This is the cradle of the inevitable baby or serves as a pouch for some other heavy load. As she goes to market the Indian woman shows the industry and the patience of her race by hands busied with her knitting or in picking the chickens she has brought to sell.

But we are off the track. The Mexican Railway passes through but few large towns. Orizaba, a sleepy