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1 About 2 miles from Lafalla and between that town & Olite, once the residence of the Kings of Navarre but now a small ciudadilla watered by the little river ----- lies a tract of marshy land running to the foot of the mountains and within sight of the little mountain village of Los Martin, celebrated during the late war which so cruelly devastated this fine province, as being the abode of a most ferocious alcalde, who was well known to be heart & soul in the Carlist interest, although the vicinity of the neighboring garrison of Lafalla, restrained him from openly espousing the cause of the Pretender.

During a rather protracted stay in this fine province, Lafalla was my head quarters, and I made several excursions to the Olite mountains to enjoy the sport the abundance of snipe & wild fowl afforded. My companion in these expeditions was always a stump tailed Spanish pointer, who if his qualifications in the qualities of his breed were not surprising yet had the advantage of being too slow & lazy to prove a Mar sport, and would occasionally even come to a point if by chance a snipe or quail was rash enough to run against him --

One cold snowy morning in December, my patron roused me up as I had directed him before daylight in order that I might make an early start to my shooting grounds.

Vamos, Don Jorge, he cried thrusting a small cup of chocolate into my hands -- vamos, levanta ? son las seis ya ?words erased? and all the snipes are waiting to be killed -- pero toma usted ciudado de este alcalde maldito, but take care of this cursed alcalde. Two golden ounces he gives for the ears of un Ingles y mas por su cabeza, & more for his head -- and the paisanos of San Martin, mala gente son, ciudado Don Jorge -- take care of the wicked people of San Martin -- With this advice to beware of the dangerous vicinity of San Martin, my worthy patron or landlord after seeing me finish the little cup of exquisite chocolate, such as only a Spaniard can concoct, went off to his campo or farm, and I donning my shooting jacket &c & taking my guns whistled to lazy old Tigre who was lying in a corner of the room snuggled up on my zamarra, I called into the kitchen where patrona assisted by several sturdy girls, was preparing an puchero for the noonday meal -- I was immediately pulled into a corner by the good woman, who repeated earnestly the advice given by her husband as to the danger of my shooting in the neighborhood where it was well known people from the village of San Martin were continually in wait to pick up stragglers, indeed I had been I knew marked for some time, but nothing could prevent my enjoying my first ?