We are at last on the high lands of Mexico, the districts which at least three different races have chosen to settle in, neglecting the fertile country below.
At sunset we are rattling through the streets of the little town of Cordova.
I am afraid the Spanish American has not always a very strict regard for truth.
Everything that is really Mexican is either Aztec or Spanish.
There was no romance about the mosquitos, however.
Every one knows how the snow lies in the valleys of the Alps, forming a plain which slopes gradually downward towards the outlet Imagine such a valley ten miles across, with just such a sloping plain, not of snow but of earth.