There dwelt
mice, cavies, and elusive little lizards; crickets sang all day long
under it, while in every open space the green _epeiras_ spread
their geometric webs. Being rich in spiders, it was a favourite
hunting-ground of those insect desperadoes, the mason-wasps, that flew
about loudly buzzing in their splendid gold and scarlet uniform. There
were also many little shy birds here, and my favourite was the wren,
for in its appearance and its scolding, jerky, gesticulating ways it
is precisely like our house-wren, though it has a richer and more
powerful song than the English bird. On the other side of the hedge
was the _potrero_, or paddock, where a milch-cow with two or three
horses were kept. The manservant, whose name was Nepomucino, presided
over orchard and paddock, also to some extent over the entire
establishment. Nepomucino was a pure negro, a little old round-headed,
blear-eyed man, about five feet four in height, the short lumpy wool
on his head quite grey; slow in speech and movements, his old black
or chocolate-coloured fingers all crooked, stiff-jointed, and pointing
spontaneously in different directions. I have never seen anything in
the human subject to equal the dignity of Nepomucino, the profound
gravity of his bearing and expression forcibly reminding one of an
owl. Apparently he had come to look upon himself as the sole head and
master of the establishment, and the sense of responsibility had more
than steadied him.
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