ches. The highest of
all was very deep and wide, and was supplied with water from the distant
hills and river, while in its turn it supplied the whole irrigation system
of the _estancia_. The plan for irrigating the fields was the simplest
that could be thought of, but it was quite as perfect as it was simple.

Add to the beauty of the trees and hedges the brilliancy of trailing
flowers of gorgeous hues and strange, fantastic shapes; let some of those
trees be actually hanging gardens of beauty; let flowers float ever on the
waters around the fields, and the fields themselves be emerald green--then
imagine sunshine, balmy air, and perfume everywhere, and you will have
some idea of the charm spread from end to end of Moncrieff's great
_estancia_.

But there was another kind of beauty about it which I have not yet
mentioned--namely, its flocks and herds and poultry.

A feature of the strath, or valley, occupied by this little Scoto-Welsh
colony was the sandhills or dunes.

'Do you call those sandhills?' I said to Moncrieff one day, shortly after
our arrival. 'Why, they are as green and bonnie as the Broad Hill on the
links of Aberdeen.'

Moncrieff smiled, but looked pleased.

'Man!' he replied, 'did you ever hear of the proverb that speaks about
making mountains of mole-hills? Well, that's what I've done up yonder.
When my partner and I began serious work on these fields of ours, those
bits of hills were a constant trouble and menace to us. They were just as
big then, maybe, as they are now--about fifty feet high at the highest,
perhaps, but they were bare sandy hillocks, constantly changing shape and
even position with every big storm, till a happy thought struck my
partner, and we chose just the right season for acting on it. We got the
Gauchos to gather for us pecks and bushels of all kinds of wild seed,
especially that of the long-rooted grasses, and these we sowed all over
the mole-hills, as we called them, and we planted bushes here and there,
and also in the hollows, and, lo! the mole-hills were changed into fairy
little mountains, and the bits o' glens between into bosky dells.'

'Dear Brother Moncrieff,' I said, 'you are a genius, and I'm so glad I met
you. What would I have been without you?'

'Twaddle, man! nonsensical havers and twaddle! If you hadn't met me you
would have met somebody else; and if you hadn't met him, you would have
foregathered wi' experience; and, man, experience is the best teacher