I descended through magnificent groves of cedar-trees to Pueblo Nuevo, making my camp on top of a hill, from which I overlooked the little settlement and the valley in which it nestles.  As every house is surrounded by its little garden of orange-trees, aguacates, and guayahas, the landscape presented a mass of verdure of different shades, the ugly, often dilapidated houses being almost lost in the green.  Lemons grow wild, and therefore there is no sale for them.  Lemon juice mixed with milk is in many parts of Mexico considered a remedy for dysentery.

A young priest, who exercised a supreme but judicious authority in this secluded spot, treated me with much consideration.  He took an honest pride in the development of his little village, and showed me its sights, first the church, which he was embellishing in many ways, and then the spring which supplied the place with water, and where the women gathered to wash their clothes and gossip.  We met many graceful figures carrying jars on their shoulders, as in ancient times.

In order to give me an opportunity to see the people, el Senor Cura allowed them to come and dance on his veranda.  His organist was a musical genius, and a composer of no mean ability, and on the cabinet organ the priest had brought from Durango on mule-back he played not only hymns, but also excellent dance music.

The climate here was delightful, the valley fragrant with the perfume of oranges, and one felt reluctant to leave this restful camp.  But I was soon reminded that nothing in this world is perfect, as one night a storm lifted my tent up and carried it several yards off, leaving me to sleep as best I could till morning.  The wind was so powerful as to fell trees.

The Pueblo Nuevo was once inhabited by Aztecs.  The present inhabitants, though amiable, are indolent and lazy, and there is a saying that in Durango not even the donkeys work.  I therefore had considerable trouble in finding a guide, the difficulty being aggravated by the fact that nobody seemed to know anything about the country toward Lajas, the Tepehuane village I was making for.

The sierra to the south where the Tepehuanes live is not frequented by the people here, who maintain communication only toward the east, principally with the city of Durango, where they market their garden crops of chile and tomatoes.  Nevertheless, some of the Tepehuane pueblos belong to the Cura’s parish, and he seemed to be the only one Who could give definite information about the country southward.

The track leading down to the San Diego River runs through an idyllic valley where picturesque brooks trickle down the slopes between groves of semi-tropical vegetation.  In one of the limpid streams a couple of pretty girls were bathing and washing their clothes, as is the custom among the poorer classes of Mexico, who rarely possess more than the clothing they wear.  As we appeared on the scene, they gracefully slipped into a deep pool, leaving nothing but their pretty faces, like water-lilies, floating above the crystal-clear water, and thus nodded a friendly greeting toward us.