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Rh work his people less and pay them more, his lack of taste may be condoned. Still, if to all excellences he adds these factory gardens of Queretaro, he will find his mill the more attractive, and make of duty a delight.

The valley runs up into the hills, filled with groves of fragrance, fig, orange, cactus, agua (a vegetable butter-apple, used as sauce for the tortillas), zapotes, and other nameless fruits. At its head a bath attracts many visitors, placed among groves of incense. The very air is burdened with spicy odors.

The aqueduct that stalks so majestically across the short campagna has its fountain-head near these baths. It runs along the mountain-sides for three miles, and then marches across the valley to the town. It makes a superb feature in the landscape; and is the only real Roman relic, save what the church affords, on the continent. It is ante-Roman, older than the Cæsars, old as Rameses and Solomon.

The alameda here is the pleasantest I have seen in all the country. It is a little one side of the town, and has a country look such as Boston Common used to have, and Druid Hill now has. It is about fifty acres square, has a drive around it, and long, straight diagonals going from a central circle to the corners. High, grand, green ash-trees make its chief shade. Grass, well sprinkled with dandelions, lies open to the free play of children, and wanderings of their elders. The familiar tree and flower made the spot more Northernish and home-like than any of its fellows. It was a delicious spot to sit and muse, and grow mellow with homesick longings. London parks, the only country fields in the heart of a great city, are not more homely and homeful. One forgets his strange surroundings, hostile even though they be, in this for beggar, nor priest, nor lordling frequent the spot. There is no wealth to come, and the others go not where wealth is not. When you come to Queretaro, be sure to take a long lounge through its alameda.