action of Mother Earth is put into one's
hands (metaphorically), with orders to know all about it and to be able
to answer all questions as to what is going on in it.

The work is like most other occupations: not quite so romantic as it
sounds at first, but as interesting as one cares to make it.

One's main employment can best be illustrated by a leaf out of a mental
diary.

Fulano de Tal, axeman, wants credit for provisions at the almacen or
general store--Has he sufficient wood cut to warrant it? It is the
Mayor-domo's business to find out.

With this end in view, he rides along "The Mangy" watercourse till he
comes to the lowland of "The Blind Cow." The barking of half a dozen
mongrel curs leads him into the edge of the forest, and he comes upon
the residence of Fulano de Tal. The man has perhaps recently moved to
this spot, and has not had time or energy to build himself a "rancho,"
and therefore the homestead consists of about four yards of canvas
stretched across the branch of a tree like the roof of a tent.

Beneath this is a "New Home" sewing machine, a Brummagem bedstead, and a
small trunk, made burglar-proof by innumerable bands and fastenings of
bright tin, or even gilt wall-paper. Scattered around are the little
Fulanos, in costumes varying from nothing to very little.

Their mother ceases her cooking operations, wipes her hands on the
nearest child's head, and invites the visitor to dismount.

He answers that he is looking for her husband, and she directs him with
a sweep of the hand which covers a quadrant of the compass and includes
several square leagues of thick forest. Taking a likely track, however,
he soon hears the ring of axe-strokes, and finds his man patiently
chipping away at a felled tree, which is rapidly taking the form of a
baulk, with the sides as smooth as if sawn.

His horse is tied up near, and he takes the Mayor-domo through his
"corte," showing him the wood prepared for the carters. Give him a
chance and he will count every log twice (most likely he has already
plastered mud over the marks which show the rotten patch in the wood,
and is wondering whether he has cleared the black sufficiently off a
piece of "campana" to persuade a reasonable man that it is really fresh
wood).

It is part of the inspector's stock in trade to know these and a myriad
other tricks, too numerous to take separately.

The typical axeman in the Santa Fe Chaco is more genuinely "childlike"
than, and