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-29- the dining room stewards became very excited about a hermit who lived in a cave near the railroad track. They made up a newspaper package of bread for him, and one of them, in his anziety to open the aindow, broke the glass and cut his hand. We all watched eagerly, and presently there was a shout from one of the stewards, and the bread was tossed out the window, but nary a glimpse could we get of holy man or cave. Much more realistic was the wreckage along the track of the train that had been in a collision only a month ago! This is rich grazing land, and the colors of the grasses were entrancing. [[underlined]] Neneo [[/underlined]] is bright yellow, other grasses were green, or purple, or rich brown. About ten-thirty we caught sight of the first of the snow mountains, and as we came down the divide and approached the blue waters of Lake Nahuel Huapi, we were hemmed in by snow-covered peaks. Here, where the National Park begins, is an abrupt end of the grazing land, and the commencement of the forest. Evergreens, largely cedar, begin as sharply as though an artist had drawn a pencil line down one mountain side and said "Thus far and no farther." We were pleased, when we stepped off the train at Bariloche, to find the winter sun was strong and fairly warm. The Department of National Parks had a car waiting for us, and after a 20-minute drive, through the muddy streets of the little frontier town, we were deposited at the Parque Hotel, and welcomed by its manager, Eduardo May, a genial Swiss, who, when Bill asked him if he had rooms, said, "Why not? Every room is at your disposal." There was, as it turned out, one other guest, but he was leaving, and from then on we had the place to ourselves. It is a charming little hotel, perched precariously on the shores of the lake, built of grey stone and timber, with wide windows opening on a spectacular view of the blue water and the snowy Andes, and - a minimum of steam heat in each room. It was not long before we all developed a passion for hot rum punches. In the afternoon our car took us over a lovely road, lying low along the lakeside, to the estancia of the John Jones family. Jones, now 72 and with a game foot, came out to this country from Texas more than fifty years ago. He earned his livelihood at first by driving cattle from Buenos Aires to Chile. Sometimes one trip would take a year. In Chile he met a girl from Iowa, and when they married and settled down he picked this stretch of land as the fairest in all South America. Here they staked out a few miles of a placid valley between the mountain ranges; here they raised seven children, and heaven knows how many sheep. At present they have 16,000 in addition to cattle, horses and 25 hunting dogs. Mrs. Jones is as chipper and bright and satisfied with the world as only a pioneer woman can be. Frances said, "You really have everything here, haven't you?" and she said, "Yes, I don't know what more a body would want to make them happy." Old Mr. Jones told some thrilling stories of wild boar hunts in these parts. It seems, that neighbors of his, who have a big place in B.A., brought out some European wild boars, thinking it would be great sport of hunt them with lances here as they do the Indian boar in India. Jones said he could have told them [[end page]]
