consciousness of all necessities, that the idea of labour in any shape—even standing, thinking, seeing, or eating—is a burden. He is a creature who would hug himself—were it not too much trouble—upon his very vacancy: upon his seeming non-existence.
There he reclines at full length, in the shade of yon huge plantain tree; the immense shadows of whose branches, cast by the sunlight on the ground, have often changed their shape and place since the morning hour; but the place and posture of the vaquero, since then, have changed not, save for the purpose of lazily doling out from his pouch some fruits and nuts for his own eating: nor is he likely to arouse himself before the shades of evening gather upon the landscape.
It is the business of the vaquero to preserve the sheep and cattle under his charge from straying and making inroads upon the unprotected vegetable and grazing-lands of other proprietors; but as the animals are almost as indolent as himself—lying as they do, blinking and sleeping in the more shady parts of the field—his occupation is a very light one, and he trains himself to follow it with only one eye, and that but partially open.
