We ride home among Indian huts, in a delicious sun-setting, under greenest of trees and among corresponding verdure. Along the banks of the almost waterless river, boys are flying kites, and women washing their few garments. A frock is on a bush, and a lady, in her reboza alone, is sitting in the stream, awaiting the drying of her tunic. The dogs and children are enjoying themselves, as much, perhaps, as if they were the children and dogs of the Prince of Wales or President Grant. Possibly more.
FUNERAL OF GOVERNOR MANUEL DOBLADO.
We pass down a long street of one-storied houses. They are all of that height. Not six in the city are two-storied. The widow of Governor Don Manuel Doblado occupies one of the former sort. He died in New York, and it is thought would have been president had he lived. Her house is spacious, and has every luxury, including that best of luxuries, its height. A very sumptuous funeral was granted him in Guanajuato, as he deserved.
Most of the houses are very poor, and the people look poorer
