After dinner to-day, we take saddle-horses for a ride to Santa Catalina.
Necessary duties in the field and mill delay us, and we are in danger of
not being able to visit the house, as my friend must be back in season
for the close of work and the distribution of provisions, in the absence
of his mayoral. The horses have the famous "march," as it is called, of
the island, an easy rapid step, something like pacing, and delightful
for a quiet ride under a soft afternoon sky, among flowers and sweet
odors. I have seen but few trotting horses in Cuba.

The afternoon is serene. Near, the birds are flying, or chattering with
extreme sociability in close trees, and the thickets are fragrant with
flowers; while far off, the high hills loom in the horizon; and all
about us is this tropical growth, with which I cannot yet become
familiar, of palms and cocoas and bananas. We amble over the red earth
of the winding lanes, and turn into the broad avenue of Santa Catalina,
with its double row of royal palms. We are in--not a forest, for the
trees are not thick and wild and large enough for that--but in a huge,
dense, tropical orchard. The avenue is as clear and straight and wide as
a city mall; while all the ground on either side, for hundreds of acres,
is a plantation of oranges and limes, bananas and plantains, cocoas and
pineapples, and of cedar and mango, mignonette and allspice, under whose
shade is growing the green-leaved, the evergreen-leaved coffee plant,
with its little dark red berry, the tonic of half the world. Here we
have a glimpse of the lost charm of Cuba. No wonder that the aged
proprietor cannot find the heart to lay it waste for the monotonous
cane-field, and make the quiet, peaceful horticulture, the natural
growth of fruit and berry, and the simple processes of gathering,
drying, and storing, give place to the steam and smoke and drive and
life-consuming toil of the ingenio!

At a turn in the avenue, we come upon the proprietor, who is taking his
evening walk, still in the exact dress and with the exact manners of
urban life. With truly French politeness, he is distressed, and all but
offended, that we cannot go to his house. It is my duty to insist on
declining his invitation, for I know that Chartrand is anxious to
return. At another turn, we come upon a group of little black children,
under the charge of a decent, matronly mulatto, coming up a shaded
footpath, which leads among the coffee. Chartrand stops to