I stood upon the platform of the little deserted railway station of the frontier and looked around at the wide prospect. "So this," I said to myself, "is Mexico!"

About me was the great plain rolling away to the Sierras in the background. The railroad track traversed it in a thin line. There were no trees—only here and there a clump of cactus or chaparral, a tuft of dog-grass or a few patches of dogwood. At intervals in the distance one could see a hacienda standing in majestic solitude in a cup of the hills. In the blue sky floated little banderillos of white cloud, while a graceful hidalgo appeared poised on a crag on one leg with folded wings, or floated lazily in the sky on one wing with folded legs.

There was a drowsy buzzing of cicadas half asleep in the cactus cups, and, from some hidden depth of the hills far in the distance, the tinkling of a mule bell.

I had seen it all so often in moving pictures that I recognised the scene at once.

"So this is Mexico?" I repeated.

The station building beside me was little more than a wooden shack. Its door was closed. There was a sort of ticket wicket opening at the side, but it too was closed.

But as I spoke thus aloud, the wicket opened. There appeared in it the head and shoulders of a little wizened man, swarthy and with bright eyes and pearly teeth.

He wore a black velvet suit with yellow facings, and a tall straw hat running to a point. I seemed to have seen him a hundred times in comic opera.

"Can you tell me when the next train—?" I began.

The little man made a gesture of Spanish politeness.

"Welcome to Mexico!" he said.

"Could you tell me—?" I continued.

"Welcome to our sunny Mexico!" he repeated—"our beautiful, glorious Mexico. Her heart throbs at the sight of you."

"Would you mind—?" I began again.

"Our beautiful Mexico, torn and distracted as she is, greets you. In the name of the de facto government, thrice welcome. Su casa!" he added with a graceful gesture indicating the interior of his little shack. "Come in and smoke cigarettes and sleep. Su casa! You are capable of Spanish, is it not?"

"No," I said, "it is not. But I wanted to know when the next train for the interior—"

"Ah!" he rejoined more briskly. "You address me as a servant of the de facto government. Momentino! One moment!"

He shut the wicket and was gone a long time. I thought he had fallen asleep.

But he reappeared. He had a bundle of what looked like railway time tables, very ancient and worn, in his hand.

"Did you say," he questioned, "the interior or the exterior?"

"The interior, please."