And he talked incessantly of his possessions: his
house, his trees, his animals, his wife and daughters. And he was
immensely popular in the neighbourhood, no doubt because he was the
father of four rather good-looking, marriageable girls; and as he kept
open house his kitchen was always full of visitors, mostly young men,
who sipped mate by the hour, and made themselves agreeable to the
girls.
One of Don Ventura's most delightful traits--that is, to us young
people--was his loud voice. I think it was a convention in those days
for estancieros or cattlemen to raise their voices according to their
importance in the community. When several gauchos are galloping over
the plain, chasing horses, hunting or marking cattle, the one who is
head of the gang shouts his directions at the top of his voice.
Probably in this way the habit of shouting at all times by landowners
and persons in authority had been acquired. And so it pleased us very
much when Don Ventura came one evening to see my father and consented
to sit down to partake of supper with us. We loved to listen to his
shouted conversation.
My parents apologized for having nothing but cold meats to put before
him--cold shoulder of mutton, a bird, and pickles, cold pie and so on.
True, he replied, cold meat is never or rarely eaten by man on the
plains.
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