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ATLANTIC OCEAN

ABOUT 3500
SQUARE MILES

POPULATION:
CARIBBEAN SEA ABOUT 1,500,000

MAP OF THE ISLAND OF PORTO RICO SHOWING CITIES AND HIGHWAYS

 
TALES OF BORINQUEN
(Porto Rico)

BY
ELIZABETH KNEIPPLE VAN DEUSEN

SPECIAL SUPERVISOR OF ENGLISH
DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION, SAN JUAN, PORTO RICO
AUTHOR OF ‘‘STORIES OF PORTO RICO’’

AND ‘PICTURESQUE PORTO RICO’’

SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY

NEW YORK NEWARK BOSTON CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO
Tal Rone
ciombileg Jo whens!
FSAI

Copyright, 1928, by
SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America
 

FOREWORD

TaLEs oF BoriNQUEN will take its place in our schools
and homes and libraries as an addition to that valuable
English record of colorful scenes and happenings of our
daily life so pleasantly begun by Elizabeth Kneipple Van
Deusen two years ago and collected in companion volumes
entitled Stories oF Porto Rico and P1cTURESQUE PORTO
Rico. A visit to any of the upper grades of our insular
schools will demonstrate how these books of original
stories and poems have endeared the English language to
our children and given it intimate significance, for this
author is the first to interpret our island for them through
that medium.

This third book, which will be used as a reader in the
ninth grade and in junior high-school classes, is a versatile
collection of advanced stories in which a fascinating study
of local characters plays a gratifyingly prominent part.
Such narratives as “Rafael,” “The Promise,” ‘Diego,”
and “Timid Max” have in their protagonists a sympathetic
and masterly portrayal of our people. Likewise, in de-
picting the vivid contrast between past and present Porto
Rican life, this writer has immortalized many of the
quaint customs of our island.

In the poems included in TALES oF BorRINQUEN we find
descriptive lyrics recounting in delicate rhythm the allure
of our graceful palms, the grandeur of our mountains,

the delights of our clear sunlit days and radiant moonlit
Vv

088s
4
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vi FOREWORD SEE

“iy

nights, and the atmosphere of old Spain, which still per-
meates our lives with its romance.

The choice of title for this volume was an especially
happy one, since Borinquen is the beloved poetical name of
our Caribbean Isle, a variation of that given it by the
Indians centuries before Christopher Columbus landed on
our shores in 1493. The original name was Boriquén,
and it will be noted that in certain of her stories and poems
which have their settings in ancient times, Mrs. Van
Deusen fittingly spells the name according to its primitive
pronunciation ; but where the mention of it is either time-
less or modern, she employs the more musical term,
Borinquen, which is the Spanish rendition of the word.

Never has Porto Rico welcomed a more constant ad-
mirer and truer friend than this author. She has come to
make her home among us and, in her appreciation of the
enchantment of our tropical island, tirelessly and beauti-
fully writes of it in English prose and verse so that we
may be better known to her people of the North and that
they in turn may be drawn closer to us. Accurate, just,
praiseful, inspiring, these charming stories and poems
reveal once again how thoroughly Mrs. Van Deusen has
delved into the history, traditions, and folklore of our
island. We shall always anticipate, not as novelties, but
as schoolroom and household companions, further faithful
interpretations of Borinquen from the pen of this skillful
and entertaining writer. ;

Francisco VIZCARRONDO
Assistant Commissioner of Education
San Juan, Porto Rico
May 10, 1928
CONTENTS

Tar Feyrr-Cary VeNrure = . . . «=.
Rararr . . SR EEL ra
LAs PALMAS DE Dirit Reco, Poe, 0 vo.
Goo WILL = = wo oe wie Sia Ba
PoOINSETTIAS. Sonnet

Tae StoNE Doc

SpaNiSH Airs. Poem Sea
You Have BroucHT ME GIFTS. Sonnet .

Tue PROMISE

Barr HARMONICA 0 ea a a
Ox l.oiza ProMONTORY. Poem... . iv
CoNTRASTS. Poem

EpHEMERA. Poem UG eR
Timip Max ChE en Se a sR
Exotics. Poenp 0. 5 =a ant,

THREE SONNETS TO LINDBERGH

Princess TATacua oF BoriQUEN

BLue Frower. Poem

DayBrEAK. Poem

TABLES TURNED :

Yr. Yunoue, Poem .

Dieco Ci ea

Tue Crimson FLOWER

THE MASTER SEA. Sonnet

WueN FramBovyaNT TREES A ons Poem
vii

PAGE

32
46
51
86
87
95
96
97

109

140

141

142

143

175

176

178

194

195

196

233

236

275

293

204
 
TALES OF BORINQUEN

THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE

Some years ago in the little town of Juncos, which lies
in the fertile river valley beyond the south slopes of the
towering blue anvil mountain, El Yunque, there lived two
staunch friends who, since early boyhood, had enjoyed
all their simple pleasures and triumphs, their sorrows and
hopes, together.

Lupe Lopez, whose delightfully alliterative name alone
would have gained him considerable renown, was one
of the favorite young men of the village. He was
slender and lithe, with a shock of straight black hair so
unmanageable that, no matter how short it was cut, it
always gave the impression of falling into its owner’s
merry brown eyes. Lupe had a set of perfect white
teeth, albeit the two upper front ones were slightly worn
down from his long-standing habit of chewing sugar cane.
His broad mouth was eternally spread in a friendly,
happy grin. In school Lupe had been at once the most
mischievous and most lovable of scholars, his quick wit
usually serving him in better stead than any pretense of
learning.

When he left high school after two years because he
had to go to work, the wise people shook their heads

with a sigh, saying that such a flighty, irresponsible boy
L
2 TALES OF BORINQUEN

would not have an easy time finding or holding any em-
ployment in this hard world. But life and fortune
usually smile back at such optimists as Lupe Lopez. He
found work, made money easily, spent it freely, never
saved a cent, and continued smiling, carefree as a bird.
True, he changed jobs as often as the seasons, but when
he wanted work he always secured it, which was a great
deal more than those who went about with long faces
and complaining voices were able to do.

Lupe first sold vegetables from a pushcart, which his
changeable fancy soon led him to restock with dry goods
of bright colors, garnished with long streamers of white
lace. Tiring of the selling game, he disposed of his little
cart and went away to work in the cane fields. (“Be-
cause it’s the cutting season, and he can get all the cane
he wants to chew,” explained those who were envious of
his good luck.) Bored with the loneliness of the fields,
he returned to town and became, for a time, assistant
to the local barber. “Ho, hum!” he exclaimed very
soon, “it’s easier to cut the tough sugar cane than the
stubborn beards of men!” He promptly changed his
occupation and, lo and behold, was taken on as clerk to
the mayor!

Claudio Ortiz, lifelong companion of Lupe Lopez,
was far more quiet and retiring than his erratic friend.
He was known about the town as “Lupe Lopez's shadow.”
Such bright spirits as Lupe usually have, in addition to
their train of admirers, one fast friend and satellite.
Claudio admired Lupe more than anyone he knew, loved
him like a brother, and always stoutly declared that one
might go far but would never find another friend such
as Lupe.
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 3

 

 

 

Lupe went away to work in the cane fields.
4 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Claudio’s ambition was not to be himself, but to be
like Lupe Lopez; and at last, by dint of long imitation, he
acquired a certain courage and animation which were but
pale reflections of his friend's natural attributes. When
Lupe left school, Claudio soon followed him. And when
Lupe went into the itinerant vegetable business, Claudio
promptly constructed a pushcart and began peddling fruit.
No doubt Claudio would have continued to astempt to
follow the meteor-like trail of his beloved friend, had
he not suddenly fallen in love.

After Claudio had courted and married Catalina Cruz,
he found that his new responsibilities would not allow
him to follow the will-o’-the-wisp career of Lupe Lopez.
Catalina liked Lupe very much, but her wise head told
her that Claudio, slow and lovable as he was, could never
hope to keep up with his quixotic friend. “Let Lupe
go,” she counseled. “He will have to settle down some
day. You will see. In the meantime if you work stead-
ily and save your money, you will come out on top, in
spite of his apparently greater success of the moment.”

When a year later, Claudio’s little son, Lupito, was
born, the fruit vender was more tied to his vocation than
ever, and could only longingly regard, without daring
to follow, the amazing course of Lupe Lopez.

Claudio had not associated for years with the original
and versatile Lupe without gaining many ideas of his
own, which he proceeded to put into his fruit business
with enlivening effect. If Lupe had ever stuck to one
trade and developed it, he would have become rich and
successful without a doubt; it was his impatience and
instability which always worked against him. Claudio,
on the other hand, began slowly and surely to prosper.
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 5

Instead of being satisfied with an ordinary fruit cart, he
was always trying to imagine how Lupe would have
made a fruit cart look attractive to the public. Now we
all have original ideas, only some of us do not delve
deeply enough to bring them to light. Claudio racked
his brain to put inspiration into his calling. He was
constantly tinkering with his cart, trying to make it more
and more alluring to his customers. Successively he
painted it blue, red, orange, green, white, black-and-
yellow striped, until Catalina declared that most of his
profits went for paint. One week he would decorate it
with flags, another with flowers, another with ferns, and
again with streamers, until his customers never tired of
running to the door when they heard him come crying
down the street, just to see how his pretty cart was adorned
that day. And, having run to the doorway, they pur-
chased !

Claudio sold fruits of the country. His cart always
contained a supply of sweet golden oranges, pale yellow
grapefruit carefully washed by Catalina, and bunches of
bananas as near perfect as he could buy. In season this
year-round stock was increased by perfumed pineapples,
by luscious russet nisperos (sapodillas), by plump cora-
zones (heart fruit) full of delectable pulp, by rich green
guanabanas and meaty caimitos, and by guayabas from
which the housewives of Juncos concocted delicious guava
paste and jelly. Claudio’s fruits were never piled in his
cart helter-skelter, but were neatly and tastefully ar-
ranged in separate compartments, with an eye to color
combinations which would tempt the buyers.

Even more attractive than Claudio’s cart and fruits
were his cries, which more properly might be called songs.
6 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Claudio had a mellow, pleasing voice, which he no longer
feared to raise, though it was a long time before his
naturally retiring nature permitted him to be heard as
he wended his way about the streets in the cool, early
morning hours. Not so, Lupe. A great part of his
success as a vegetable vender had been due to his lusty
whole-hearted singing forth of his produce in rhymes
and couplets and quatrains, improvised as he went along.
Housemaids had been known to laugh themselves nearly
ill over the queer verses of Lupe Lopez, the most popu-
lar of all the street venders. So Claudio set about in
his more ponderous fashion to compose some amusing
rhymes for himself. But his were no clever improvisa-
tions of the moment. Glib and spontaneous as they
might sound, they were the result of many hours of
thought and mental struggle on the part of Claudio. Yet
he stuck to his task and began to prosper.

“Hello! How are you, Dona Catalina? What's new,
Claudito? Hello, Lupito!” thus Lupe Lopez announced
himself one bright Sunday morning in January, entering
his friend’s modest little home without knocking, on such
intimate terms was he there.

“Hello, Lupe! Welcome!” His love for his friend
could be heard in the very tones of Claudio’s voice and
seen in the light of his brown eyes. “Nothing new with
me, as usual. But come, tell us what's on your mind!
I can see by the look on your face that you have some-
thing up your sleeve!”

“Ha! Ha! You hear your father, Lupito? He's a
magician!” cried Lupe catching his godson and tossing
him gaily up into the air, to the child's vociferous de-
light.
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 2

“Lupe!” screamed Catalina. “Stop! What do you
mean? You'll drop him!” and she snatched her baby
out of Lupe’s arms.

“Never, Sefiora!” declared Lupe. “You see?” he
added, as Lupito set up a loud wail. “He wants his uncle
Lupe! He knows he is safe with me! Now, now,
there, my little son,” he laughed, taking Lupito again
and tickling and romping with the tiny fellow until he
was all smiles and laughter once more.

“You certainly have a way with children!” admitted
Catalina. “I never saw anything like it. You'll have
to give up being mayor’s clerk and come here to play
nursemaid for Lupito! I certainly wish some one like
you were here to take care of him when I'm up to my
ears in work and he cries all.day long!”

“Lupito! Is it possible that you behave so?” cried
Lupe in mock severity, at which the youngster gurgled
and crowed and pulled his godfather’s unruly forelock.
“Thank you, Dofia Catalina, for the compliment!” ex-
claimed Lupe turning to her. “Nothing would give me
more pleasure than playing nurse to Lupito. The only
drawback is that I have just taken on new duties which—"

“Lupe! Again?” shouted Claudio and Catalina in
chorus.

“My dear friends,” cried the irrepressible Lupe, “the
astonishment which my simple announcement has pro-
duced in you is very flattering to me!”

“Oh, Lupe!” echoed Claudio, laughing heartily.

“Yes,” continued the other, “you no longer see before
you the ignominious slave to a mere mayor, but one who
is henceforth the arbiter of his own fate, the master of
his destiny! In short, not to keep you in suspense any
8 TALES OF BORINQUEN

longer, I have purchased a guagua and intend to open a
daily passenger service at once between our fair pueblo
and the capital city!”

“Lupe!!!”

“St, seitores, Lupe Lopez, guagiiero, at your service!”
and the new bus-driver bowed profoundly.

Lupe had indeed made the first payment on a disrepu-
table old second-hand guagua, one of those big motor
busses which crowd the main streets of San Juan and ply
between the towns of Porto Rico, carrying passengers.

“True, it is not much to look at now,” admitted Lupe,
gazing fondly at his new toy a little later when he had
brought Claudio to see it, “but wait till I get through
with it!”

Claudio, who had implicit faith in his friend’s ability
to do anything he pleased in the world, looked at the
decrepit vehicle and easily visualized the triumph of
originality which Lupe’s magic touch would create. If
a mere fairy godmother could turn a pumpkin into a
coach, Lupe Lopez would be able to make a limousine out
of a tin can! “But, Lupe,” said Claudio, after he had
congratulated him on the bargain, “what about the—the
insides?”

“The motor?”

Yes

“Ah, my friend, that is attended to already! The
good doctor operates first and treats the outside after-
wards!” And Lupe drew off the hood of the motor with
a flourish, revealing the interior of the engine, clean,
shining, oiled, as though it had just come out of the
factory. Like most men of his type Lupe was a genius
at mechanics. He had but to look into the interior of
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 9

a balky automobile, but to apply his wizard’s touch, and
the thing would begin to purr like a happy kitten.

Two or three days later, while Claudio and his wife
were seated at dinner, they were startled by a terrific
noise outside, which sounded like something between the
roar of a tormented lion and the groan of a suffering
cow. They both rushed to the door and beheld, in
front of their house, a resplendent spectacle.

Lupe had triumphed once more. There he sat in the
driver's seat of his new chariot, dressed in a spick and
span white suit, grinning all over his shining face, his
hand pressed with full force on the ear-splitting horn
which his peculiar fancy had led him to buy. And his
motor bus! Pink, Lupe had painted it, a deep strawberry-
ice-cream pink, lavishly decorated with garlands of
bright red roses, twining realistically around the name
which Lupe had chosen for his pet and had drawn in
giant purple letters on both its flanks. That name!
For Lupe called his guagua:

“TRAGA MILLAS

“Greased Lightning,” or “The Mile Eater!” Who but
Lupe Lopez would have thought of naming his guagua
that?

Claudio and Catalina were speechless with admiration.

“Get Lupito and come on, both of you! I want to
take you in the first triumphal trip around the plaza!”

No sooner said than done. In a few minutes “Traga
Millas” was swinging round the principal plaza to the
intense enjoyment of the onlookers, who came running
from all directions to see it and to cheer the effort of
their beloved Lupe.
10 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Needless to say that when Lupe inaugurated his serv-
ice to San Juan the next morning, he had a full passen-
ger list. Never was a guagiiero more popular with his
clientele. People estimated it would be worth the price
of the trip to take it in the amusing company of Lupe
Lopez. This indeed proved to be so.

Never had Claudio regarded his friend so wistfully as
he did that morning when he waved farewell as long
as he could see the departing motorbus. Never had he
felt so tied down to the irksome routine of his peddling.
If it had not been for the love he bore his wife and little
son, there is no doubt that he would have discarded his
fruit cart then and there and, taking his hard-earned
savings, have cast his lot for better or worse with that
of his capricious friend. His very heart ached with long-
ing to participate in that first glorious trip. Still he had
steadfastly refused all of Lupe’s pressing invitations,
being of too faithful a turn of mind to disappoint his
regular daily customers. But Claudio’s cheerful voice
was sad that morning:

“Chinas, chinas, frescas y maduras,
Pinas, pinas, dulces y puras,
Corazones grandes, guineos buenos,
Ven a ver lo que tengo en mi carro,
A diez centavos!”

“Oranges, oranges, fresh and ripe,
Pineapples, pineapples, pure and sweet,
Heart fruits large, and bananas fine,
Come and see what I have in my cart,
For only a dime!”
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 11

Thus sang Claudio, but his thoughts followed the joy-
ous progress of “Traga Millas” all along the green coun-
tryside, through the gay town of Caguas, and around the
mountain curves down to San Juan beside the blue At-
antic. . .

Lupe Lopez now flourished as never before, and the
tales that he told of the city of San Juan pictured it as
the most glorious and alluring spot on the entire face
of the globe.

“TI tell you, Claudio, my friend, you are wasting your
time in a small place like Juncos. With your ability and
diligence you could make a fortune out of the fruit busi-
ness in San Juan!”

“Lupe! T beg you not to put such notions into his
head!” cried practical Catalina.

“Notions? My dear lady! They are solemn truths!
It fairly makes me ill to see my oldest and dearest friend
wasting his life here in this village, when from beyond
the hills the city beckons to him with golden oppor-
tunity !”

And foolish Claudio, listening eagerly to his imprac-
tical friend, began to believe that every day he now
remained in Juncos was just so much time lost.

“But think, Catalina,” he would argue, “of the ad-
vantages of living in the city! With the increased money
I would earn there I could build you a home three times
as large and ten times as handsome as this one. You
would be able to go to the big stores and get whatever
your dear heart desired. When Lupito is old enough
he would attend the best school in the island. We would
have nice friends and enjoy the best of good times!”
2 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“No, no, Claudio, I am sure you are mistaken. The
city is large. The competition would be keener than any
you have ever known here in our friendly town. All the
people would be strangers. I am afraid that we would
be lonely and unhappy. It takes more money to live in
the city. We would have to spend all our savings just
for you to get a start. No, it is better for us to re-
main here, where the road lies clear before us. Every-
one in Juncos knows you and likes you. When you
have opened your little store, I am sure we will be on
the road to success.”

But Claudio was unconvinced. He stood in the shade
of a roble tree beside the plaza, wearily peeling oranges
for his afternoon trade, his thoughts far away on the
glamorous city.

“rHola, Claudio!” greeted a customer. “Wake up and
sell me an orange.”

“Say,” shouted the same man angrily a few minutes
later, “what is the matter with you today? Look, you
cut clear through this skin and my hands are all sticky
with juice. After this I will buy my oranges from
Julio, who is more careful in peeling them than you
seem to be!”

This reproof brought Claudio back to his surround-
ings. He hastily apologized to his dissatisfied customer
and offered him another orange free of charge, thinking
the while: “His manners are very crude! The cul-
tured people of the city would never speak to anyone in
such a rough fashion!”

So strong became Claudio’s desire at last, that he over-
ruled all his wife's objections. Ome bright morning
found him seated beside his friend in the guagua, his
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 13

fruit cart firmly tied high on top, ready to start for
San Juan to seek new and greater fortunes.

“Farewell, Catalina!” he called happily. “;Adids,
Lupito! Do not weep,” he chided as he caught sight of
some tears in his wife's pretty eyes. “It won't be any
time at all until IT am sending for you and Lupito, and
then we shall all live happily ever after—"

“in a palace in San Juan!” concluded Lupe Lopez
grandly.

What a ride it was that the two young friends enjoyed
through the cool April morning! They had the motor-
bus to themselves, for the novelty of his guagua having
by this time worn off, and it being Monday morning,
Lupe had not secured any other fares for the trip.
“We can enjoy ourselves all the more!” he cried cheer-
fully. “No doubt we shall pick up passengers along the
way!”

Out into the country they careened and rolled, for, as
may be imagined, Lupe was a reckless driver. Claudio
grinned like a schoolboy on a holiday, and from time to
time he looked affectionately towards his friend. Not
for a long while had these two, formerly so inseparable,
enjoyed a day alone together.

“Let’s make it a real holiday!” and Lupe put on more
speed, so that Claudio’s hat went flying out the open
window.

While they were retrieving the hat, some merry young-
sters came along chewing sugar cane. Like boys them-
selves, the two young men begged some of the sweet
stalks and rode on sucking the delicious juice out of the
tough fibre, Lupe guiding the car carelessly with one
hand.
14 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Claudio was so happy he began to sing. Everything
looked beautiful to him, simply enchanting, glimpsed
from the viewpoint of his glorious freedom. The
colored washings stretched along the wire fences were
as gay as flags hung up for a feast day. The flamboyant
trees, all covered with lacy green leaves and just bursting
into scarlet bloom, were a delight to his eyes. The fields
of tall ripened cane filled him with a sensation of pride
in the richness of his beloved island. And, as his gaze
wandered far across vale and meadow to the serrated,
multi-colored hills which lay wrapt in sunny haze on
either hand, he felt that his heart must burst from the
very joy of living in such a beautiful world.

“How far to Caguas?”’ he shouted and began like a
boy to count the kilometer posts which they reached and
passed so swiftly. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve. *;Dios
mio, hombre! This guagua certainly does eat up the
miles! Hurrah!”

Suddenly the bus stopped with a terrific lurch and an
ear-splitting grinding of brakes. “Wh-what is it?”
gasped Claudio, whose breath had been nearly knocked
out of him.

“A passenger!”

Claudio watched the first passenger with great in-
terest. She was an old negress, enormously fat, her
head tied up in a gay-colored bandanna.

“Good day, Dofla Maruca!” shouted the genial gua-
qiiero.

“Good day, and how are you?” replied the woman,
puffing and gasping as she climbed into the bus, carry-
ing a large, flat, covered wooden box.

“Meet my friend, Don Claudio! This is Dofia
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 15

Maruca, who makes the best guava paste in the country.
She goes with me every other day to sell her sweets in
Caguas. Please give us a sample, Donia Maruca!”

The negress obligingly lifted the cover off her box
and cut two generous slices of the rich, wine-colored
paste, which she withheld momentarily: “Not unless you
drive slower today, my fine fellow!” she remarked grin-
ning.

“We proceed from this point as a snail would creep!”
promised Lupe. But a moment later, when he had re-
ceived the treat and gobbled it up, he was off faster than
ever, so that the two hilarious friends were entertained
by a series of screeches and howls of protest from the
poor negress, who bounced and jolted around on the
slippery leather seat.

They rolled impressively into Caguas, Lupe receiving
friendly salutes from every side. When he had dis-
charged his irate passenger, he and Claudio drank a re-
fresco de mabi purchased from a ragged little urchin
who kept bottles of this tempting fruit beverage on ice
in a small cart. Claudio greatly admired the broad plaza
with its lovely tulipdn trees, its colorful variety of flowers
and palms, its pleasant paths, and comfortable benches.

“It is beautiful,” admitted Lupe. ‘“There’s nothing
prettier than this in San Juan itself. But wait till you
see the tall buildings there, my friend!” And he started
the guagua with a tremendous roar, as though his eager-
ness to reach the metropolis knew no bounds. Lupe was
sincere in all he told Claudio about the city. He really
believed that therein lay opportunity for his friend. He
did not realize that he and Claudio were two such dif-
ferent persons. People like Lupe succeed anywhere; but
16 TALES OF BORINQUEN

for those like Claudio there usually exists but one chance
for real success, and they must search for their place in
life and keep it.

 

The delightful plaza of Caguas.

They sped out of Caguas munching some frituras de
bacalao (codfish fritters) which Lupe had insisted on
buying, for all the world like two hungry urchins who
must be forever eating to be truly happy. They had
taken on several passengers in Caguas. There was a
stoop-backed old man with a large pack of fibre ham-
mocks which he was taking to the city to try to sell.
“It's a hard life,” he moaned in answer to Lupe’s in-
quiry as to the state of the business world, whereupon
he relapsed into gloomy silence and soon went to sleep
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 17

in spite of the terrific bumping and lurching of the bus.

Then there was a thin, pale young woman dressed in
mourning— “for my husband,” as sympathetic Lupe
soon learned. She had two puny children with her
whom, she explained, she was taking to the free medical
clinic at the Presbyterian Hospital in Santurce. Claudio
looked with compassion on the solemn-faced children and
thought of his own fat, happy little son. He hastily
gave each of these two a codfish fritter, the food becom-
ing tasteless in his own mouth as he beheld so much
genuine hunger. :

Next there was a policeman in his impressive blue
uniform, who at first was far too much on his dignity to
deign to speak with his lowly fellow-passengers. But
under Lupe’s influence (for the clever guagiiero always
sought to bring about a condition of friendly sociability
among his “traveling guests’), he soon expanded and
thereupon regaled his breathless audience with a detailed
and hair-raising account of a recent altercation between a
cane-cutter and a truck-driver.

Claudio listened fascinated. What a glorious life his
friend was leading, with all these different and inter-
esting people riding in his bus every day. Claudio could
not possibly have guessed or imagined that already Lupe
was becoming rather tired of the daily trip over the same
road and had even thought once or twice of selling his
guagua and going into some kind of business in San
Juan!

The only other traveler in the motorbus was an old
farm laborer, who was so apprehensive that he would be
carried beyond the place he wished to go that he kept
jumping up every moment and poking his head out of
18 TALES OF BORINQUEN

the window and yelling, “Just around the next curve!”
Lupe finally assured him that he knew the exact spot
where he wanted to get off and that nothing in the world
could cause him to pass it. At this the old farmer sub-
sided. Great, then, was the amusement of the others,
when Lupe, engrossed in listening to the policeman’s lurid
account, did carry him beyond the place after all! The
angry old fellow climbed out in a terrible huff and shook
his fist after the guagua as long as he could see it.

They had not gone far when Lupe was hungry again,
and so they stopped long enough to buy some queso del
pais (native cheese) and crackers at one of the many at-
tractive little cafés which stood at intervals along the
shady Military Road. Lupe, who was the soul of gener-
rosity, could not bear to eat while others looked hungrily
on, and so he treated everyone.

“Oho!” thought Claudio anxiously. “So this is where
all his profits go! He will never get rich at this rate!
I must warn him against such things.” But Claudio well
knew that Lupe Lopez would far rather give to others
than have things for himself.

Lupe looked enviously at some boys knocking half-
green mangoes from a tree with stones, but he did not
stop. A little further on three small girls ran out into
the highway selling roses, and kindly Lupe bought a bunch
and gave it to the pale young widow, rewarded for his
act by the smile which lighted her sad and weary eyes.
At Las Cruces an eccentric old man who had been living
there for years rushed into the road, holding aloft a crude
wooden crucifix which he had made himself, and uttered
some words of benediction. Lupe tossed him a penny,
and Claudio guessed that this was a daily occurrence.
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 19

Catalina was always saying, “guard the pennies and you
will soon have dollars.” She was right, of course.
Where’ one had responsibilities one must be prepared to
meet them. But Claudio looked enviously out of the
corner of his eye at carefree, spendthrift Lupe, and won-
dered if this were not the happiest man he had ever seen.

When the guragua reached San Juan, Claudio was as
impressed and enthusiastic as even Lupe could have
wished him to be. The two friends had a pleasant lunch
together at an oilcloth-covered table in a cafetin and then
strolled around for an hour or so enjoying the sights
of the city, which Lupe pointed out with as much pride
as though he were a resident. But finally came the time
to part from Claudio, for he had to make the return trip
to Juncos that afternoon. It was with a queer sinking
of the heart that Claudio untied his fruit cart from the
top of the guagua. How small and crude it looked in
comparison with the splendid large carts of the city ven-
ders which he and Lupe had passed during their walk!
He said nothing of his sudden misgivings to his cheerful
friend, for he knew that Lupe was never daunted by
anything.

“Good-bye, Claudito,” said Lupe shaking hands vigor-
ously. “Rest assured that I will drive around tonight
to tell Catalina that you arrived safely. Wishing you all
success, I shall hope to see you at this spot tomorrow.
Well, adiés!” And the guagua drove off with a pro-
longed sounding of its shrill klaxon in honor of the oc-
casion.

When Lupe had gone, Claudio felt more lonely than
he ever had in his life. He looked at his cart, which
contained only his little bundle of clothes. He stared
20 TALES OF BORINQUEN

at the imposing buildings around the Baldorioty plaza
where Lupe had left him. The congested traffic of San
Juan swept dangerously by the timid villager, who sud-
denly did not know what to do or where to go. Of
one thing he was certain: he must escape at once from
the noise and confusion of the heart of the city. Why
had he not returned with Lupe as far as Santurce, with
its beautiful, residential section, quiet streets, and broad
flower gardens? It was there that he would vend his
fruits. The hurly-burly of the downtown district would,
he felt, drive him mad in no time.

Not having any way to send his cart, he was forced
to walk and push it before him. What a harrowing ex-
perience it was! The city guaguas lurched by him at
terrifying speed. Automobiles whizzed and skidded
around him. A hundred times he thought his last mo-
ment had come. In his bewilderment at the traffic he
lost all sense of direction. A policeman berated him
soundly for walking on the wrong side of the road. By
the time he had reached the junction of the new San
Antonio bridge and the Condado causeway, he felt weak
and ill. But he must push on, for it now occurred to
him that the afternoon was wearing away and he had
no place to spend the night. He realized how poorly
he had planned this venture, without any knowledge of
how to carry it through. As he trudged along, weary
and lonely, he felt he would give a great deal just then
for a sight of his own comfortable little home, for a
glimpse of his capable wife, and for a smile from his tiny
son. But he set his lips grimly. He would not go back
to them until he had succeeded. Finally he saw a house
with a sign, “Rooms to let.”
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 3)

Knocking timidly on the door, he was confronted by
a pert young servant girl who said that her mistress was
out. He ventured to ask the price of the rooms which
were for rent, and when she had named it, he barely re-
frained from gasping with astonishment. “I—I will

 

In Santurce’s beautiful residential section.

come back I-later,” he stammered, his face flushed. As
he made his way down the walk, he thought he heard
the impudent girl giggle. No doubt she had observed
at once that he was an inexperienced small-town fellow.
But the price of those rooms! It made him turn cold all
over. If he could not find something much cheaper than
that, he would have to sleep out of doors.

He pushed on, until he finally found himself in a
poorer part of town, but it was nearly sunset when the
weary fruit vender secured a tiny, meagerly furnished,
not-too-clean room in a large tenement house full of
22 TALES OF BORINQUEN

families with seemingly hundreds of noisy, clamorous
children. Claudio was too tired and too timorous to go
out and search for some supper, and so he lay down un-
happily and soon fell into a troubled sleep.

The vender was so fatigued that he did not wake
until nearly eight o'clock the next morning. When he
came outside, he found the whole patio filled with women
washing clothes, cooking over outdoor charcoal stoves, or
sewing in their doorways. Screaming children were
everywhere, and he found three little boys playing with
his cart, which he had left tilted outside the door of his
room. As there were no men about, he concluded they
had all gone to work. Nearby was a thin old woman,
bending over a tub full of clothes. Claudio first rescued
his cart and then approached her with a question as to
the whereabouts of the fruit, market.

The ancient dame stood up very deliberately, wiped
her soapy hands on her skirt, folded her arms, looked
the young man over from head to foot, and finally an-
nounced that she had not been to market for ten years
and did not know where the new one was. Then she
drew a pipe out of her pocket, filled it deliberately with
some damp-looking tobacco, lighted it with a reluctant
match, puffed a few times and, raising her voice, shrieked
above the din which filled the patio: “Eugenia!”

A young woman came to the door, holding a screaming
infant in her arms. ‘‘Ask her,” said the old woman
briefly and turned again to her tub. Much embarrassed,
Claudio repeated his question. The young woman
promptly went into a highly complicated explanation of
how one arrived at the Santurce market from that point,
all of which was entirely unintelligible to Claudio, since
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 23

he knew nothing of the city or its suburbs. Several
other women were attracted to the spot by their curiosity,
and they, too, added their vociferous directions, which
made matters the more confusing.

Finally Claudio murmured his timid thanks and
pushed his cart out of the patio no wiser than before.
How he found the market place always remained a mys-
tery to him. He reached it only after devious wander-
ings, and so late that the fruit left for his choosing was
of the poorest, which in no wise prevented the dealers
. from asking exorbitant prices for it. When Claudio
finally started out, it was with as unattractive an assort-
ment as he had ever seen, and already it was almost
noon.

By the time he had drunk some coffee in a café, the
late morning sun was blistering hot. He decided to seek
some of the inviting residential streets he had observed
on the previous morning when riding so gaily into
town. But when he was finally at the beginning of a
broad, shaded street in Santurce, with large and costly
homes on either side, he found it quite impossible to raise
his voice in the gay musical rhymes which had always
amused and attracted the housewives of Juncos. Some-
how the laudatory songs of yesterday did not fit the
wretched fruit which lay in his cart. Then, too, he re-
membered the impudent servant girl of the previous after-
noon. Perhaps the city folk would laugh at his offering
his fruit in that manner. He wished he could see an-
other vender and hear his calls. But the beautiful street
was empty. Finally with a scarcely audible cry of
“Chinas, chinas, y gwineos,” he began to push his cart
down the middle of the spacious thoroughfare.
24 TALES OF BORINQUEN

No one appeared in response until he had gone two
blocks, when a serving boy, in an impressive white jacket
with brass buttons, came running out of one of the big
houses and said he wanted a chicken.

*Bui 1 sell front!”

“Well, your voice is so feeble that I could not tell what
you were selling,” replied the boy, reéntering the house
without another word.

After that Claudio raised his voice but had no further
customers. Apparently every house had already been
supplied with fruit by earlier venders. Up one street
and down another went the disheartened fruit merchant,
making a scant fifty cents in three hours, and that only
because he reduced his prices below cost. Suddenly to
his dismay he realized that it was past the time when he
was to meet Lupe. He felt that without the comfort
of seeing his friend, he would die of despair and lone-
liness. As he could not possibly go into San Juan, he
made his way with what haste his tired feet could achieve
toward the Carretera Central, in order to hail Lupe as
he passed on his return to Juncos. But Claudio waited
all the weary afternoon and no Lupe came.

It was nearly sunset when he went sorrowfully back to
his cheerless lodging, full of disappointment at missing
Lupe. He traded the remainder of his fruit to the talka-
tive young woman who had directed him that morning,
for some supper. Then, borrowing a sheet of grimy
note paper from her son, who was a schoolboy, he sat
down to write a letter to his wife. It was with difficulty
that he infused the proper optimism into his words. He
could not bear that she should think him down-hearted.
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 23

Ie told her that he was sorry he had missed Lupe, and
that he would try to see him the next day.

But Claudio did not see Lupe on the morrow or for a
long time thereafter. It was three days later when an
answer to his letter arrived from Catalina. She and
Lupito were well, but she had very bad news to impart.
On the very day Claudio had gone to San Juan, Lupe, re-
turning to Juncos, had met with a serious accident :

Between San Juan and Caguas he overtook a huge, loaded
truck. Though he blew and blew his horn, the men on top
of the load, just to tease poor Lupe, only laughed at him
and refused to pull the cord which would ring the warning
bell beside the truck-driver’'s ear. He became so impatient
(you know how impatient Lupe always is, Claudio) that
he decided to pass the truck anyway. So, putting on all
speed, he turned out, but the road was too narrow and the
guagua went over the cliff. It was smashed to pieces and
Lupe has a broken shoulder and a broken leg and three
broken ribs, and it’s a wonder he is not dead! But he is as
cheerful as ever, and half the town has already been to the
hospital to visit him and take him gifts. The ward looks
like a bazaar. The men on the truck were all arrested, but
they are too poor to pay any damages; and of course it was
not the driver’s fault as he had no idea there was any one
behind him. “Traga Millas” is no more. Lupe sends you
his affectionate greetings and wishes you luck. And, oh,
Claudio, I thank the blesséd Virgin that you are safe and
well !

I hope that you will send for us soon, because Lupito and
I are very lonely without you.

When poor Claudio read this alarming letter, he felt
that he must return to Juncos that very day. Only his
26 TALES OF BORINQUEN

pride kept him from doing so. His rosy dream of the
city had already been irreparably shattered. Every day
he spent more money than he made. His wits were no
match for the crafty fellows in the city market. No
matter how early in the morning he arrived there, he
never seemed able to get the same fine class of fruit that
he had always been so proud to sell in Juncos. He found
competition very keen and the demands of the customers
difficult to satisfy.

After a week he was so discouraged that he decided he
would stop trying to sell in the residence section and
would take up a position in the streets of the business dis-
trict of San Juan. “There are so many people there,
surely there must be trade for all who want to sell,” he
reasoned. “I simply must earn some money to send
home to Catalina soon.” That night he wrote of his new
plan to his wife in such glowing, anticipatory terms that,
when she read his letter, she was almost led to believe
that Claudio was really going to be rich some day. She
even wondered if she should not begin to prepare their
modest household possessions for the move to the city.

But, alas! Claudio had not been established even one
hour on Cruz Street when a policeman came up and de-
manded his license. As the vender did not have any
license, the officer ordered him to secure one before the
morning was over ; otherwise he would be arrested. The
officer directed him to the City Hall, and when poor
Claudio came out with his permit, he found that he had
lost nearly the entire morning. Somewhat disheartened
he proceeded to take up his stand. Very carefully he ar-
ranged his fruit, which he had selected with the most
especial care—oranges, bananas, grapefruit. To his dis-
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 27

may the very first customer who approached him de-
manded apples. Claudio had never sold apples in his life.
The next man, who came up in a great hurry, wanted
grapes. Neither had Claudio ever sold grapes. What
was the matter with the city people? Were not the pro-
ducts of their own country good enough for them? Or
were their tastes so fastidious that they could be tempted
only with strange and costly foreign fruits? How grate-
ful Claudio was to the first woman who bought a dozen
bananas!

Although the vender sold more fruit in the business sec-
tion than he had in the residential, his day’s income was
far smaller than it should have been. “It is because I do
not have what the people want,” he thought and resolved
on the morrow to restock his cart with fruits from the
United States. But if Claudio had trouble bargaining in
the city market, it was as nothing to what he suffered
when he tried to deal with the wholesale importers. How
these strange, sophisticated men, who were businesslike
through and through, frightened poor Claudio!

For a week Claudio struggled. Then, just as he was
about to get his bearings in his new surroundings, and
just as he was beginning to understand the difficult city
ways, he was attacked with that very painful malady
known as homesickness. Still he dared not return to
Juncos. Where was the fortune of which he had boasted
to Catalina? Where the palace he had promised to build
for her? No, he could not face her.

But Catalina was as lonely for Claudio as he for her.
Furthermore, she was a wise woman and very easily
read between the lines of forced cheerfulness in her hus-
band’s letters. She knew that all was not well with him
28 TALES OF BORINQUEN

and that he was disappointed. She even surmised ex-
actly when it had been that he was beset by homesickness,
though the word nostalgia never appeared in his epistles.
But she desired to let him have his fill of the city before
she took any action. :

“Claudio is doing excellently,” she told all her inquir-
ing friends, holding her head proud and high.

)

 

 

 

A broad, shaded street in Santurce.

Now perhaps Claudio, after many long struggles, might
finally have overcome his natural timidity, might
have learned the ways and wiles of the city and have be-
come a successful fruit vender there, even in spite of his
terrible loneliness. However, whether he would have or
not will never be known, for one day a letter arrived from
Catalina which abruptly decided his course of action, as
the writer had intended it to do!

“By this time you should be ready for us,” wrote his
wife, “and Lupito and I are coming to you on Monday.”
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 29

Claudio was in a panic. She was coming! He could
not let that happen! What if his wife were to see the
sordid surroundings in which he had been forced to live so
that he could send her a little money to prevent her from
guessing his failure? What if she should come and dis-
cover how really meager his success had been? What if
she should see and realize how the city had conquered
him instead of his conquering it? No, he must not let
that happen! Better for him to return hastily to Juncos
before all was discovered. He would go home. He
would go home that very day. Home! How the word
thrilled him! Home to Catalina, to Lupito, and yes, to
Lupe, for never once had kindly Claudio censured his in-
jured friend for the disaster his careless counsel had
brought upon his and Catalina’s modest fortunes. Back
to Juncos to begin all over again! Tt would be hard, cer-
tainly, but not so hard as the struggle for existence in the
unfeeling city.

Being too poor to hire an automobile, Claudio secured
a place for himself on a truck bound for Caguas. He
was forced to leave his cart behind, but this he did with-
out regret, for to him it spelled his defeat in the metropo-
lis, and he loathed the sight of it. At Caguas he secured
another ride on a truck and near evening rode into Juncos.

Of the laughter and the tears, the confessions and re-
solves which took place that night in Claudio’s little
home, it is best to say nothing, for they were a strictly
private matter between Claudio and his wife. But when
later he and Catalina and Lupito went to the hospital to
see Lupe, all was once more smiles and hope. What
mattered a little setback, since the happy family was re-
united? Claudio did not tell any but the brightest of
30 TALES OF BORINQUEN

stories to Lupe, for he saw no need to cast a deeper
shadow over his already afflicted friend.

“Welcome, Claudio! I think you did well to come
back! No place for a man like his home town!” cried
Lupe with characteristic inconsistency.

“You are right, Lupe, as always,” replied Claudio
fondly, with a smile towards Catalina.

But the next morning Claudio made a very curious dis-
covery. As he walked about Juncos, greeting his old
friends, he looked at the little town in a new light—that
of his recent broadening experience. And suddenly there
came to Claudio an idea. In a moment he realized that
his sojourn in San Juan had not been a loss but would
prove an asset. He hastened home to tell his wife.

“You see, Catalina,” he exclaimed, “all knowledge has
value! Tt is by travel that one grows and expands. By
the light of experience opportunity is revealed. If I had
never been to San Juan, my new idea would never have
occurred to me; but now by putting it into execution I
shall be able to prosper more than I ever dreamed of
doing! You will see!”

And Claudio’s prophecy came true. For he became
no less than an importer! Instead of wheeling a fruit
cart around the streets, he ordered, in small but stead-
ily increasing quantities, foreign fruits—apples, pears,
grapes, peaches, cherries, plums, all in their season—from
the wholesalers in San Juan. And thus for the first time
the people of Juncos had opportunity to eat these delec-
table dainties whenever they wished. Claudio began to
advance very quickly, for he was supplying the public
with a new and desirable commodity. A bit later he in-
creased his stock to include fresh vegetables from the
THE FRUIT-CART VENTURE 31

United States which were not to be had in Porto Rico.
And then he added cold-storage meats. The name of
Claudio Ortiz soon became well known to the wholesale
merchants of the capital city, and none of them ever
dreamed of coupling it with the country fruit vender whom
they had once looked upon as ignorant and gullible.
Claudio bade fair to be in coming years one of the suc-
cessful men of his community. For all of his good for-
tune, He gave humble credit to Lupe Lopez. “Because,
had it not been for Lupe, I would never have had the
courage to go to the city. And had I never gone to the
city, I would have remained in the same narrow, drudging
groove all my life.”

Claudio did not see anything significant (although
Catalina did) in the fact that Lupe Lopez, upon being
released from the hospital, came hobbling into his modest
little fruit store and said whimsically: “Don’t you think
you could take me on as a clerk for a little while, Claudito?
I have a fancy to try my hand at the fruit-selling busi:
ness. Only for a while, you understand, until I am on
my feet again. Still, I can get around pretty well now,
can I not?” And Lupe thumped about briskly upon his
crutches.

“Lupe!” cried Claudio quite beside himself with de-
light. “You may work here forever, if you want to!”
RAFAEL.

The house where Rafael Amadeo lived was large, in
fact, a mansion. It was fitted with all the devices for
comfort and luxury with which a modern world could
tempt a princely fortune. Rafael’s father was a mer-
chant, who rode to his place of business each morning in a
motor car of the latest model and the finest make. His
mother, a beautiful woman, was very active and much ad-
mired in the society of the capital city. Only Rafael’s
grandfather still preferred a simple life, being content to
sit dreaming about the past in a comfortable old chair on
the balcony, when he was not working among his beloved
flowers in the wide gardens surrounding his daughter’s
home.

As for young Rafael, he had all that multitude of in-
terests which fill the life of a wealthy boy of the present
time. His toys, especially the expensive mechanical ones,
would be difficult to enumerate. His friends outnum-
bered his toys, and he was constantly with them, engaged
in a succession of pleasures and games. He possessed
several shelves of attractive books which, unfortunately,
his other activities did not allow him time to read. And
though Rafael attended the best school in the city, it was
increasingly evident that his diversions engrossed him far
more than his studies. Of his precious chance for learn-
ing, he was totally unaware. Life had always given him
so much that he had never considered the possible strug-

32
RAFAEL 33

gles of less fortunate boys. Nothing as yet had awakened
him to an appreciation of the exceptional opportunities he
enjoyed.”, ..

The tropical sunset emblazoned the sky. Rafael’s
mother appeared in the doorway. “Come, my son,” she
called, “you have played long enough. It is time for
study.”

“Please, mother,” protested Rafael, “don’t make me
waste the last hour of daylight! I will study tonight.”
“But tonight you are going to the moving pictures.”

That is right, mother. Then I shall have to get up
early in the morning and study.”

The fond mother smiled. When had Rafael been
known to rise early? Never. “Come,” she called, “now
is the only time.”

“Study, study, study!” complained the boy. “First the
teachers, then you, then father, then grandfather—every
one always saying, ‘time to study! I shall be glad when
I never have to go to school again! I'm tired of studying
all the time, with never a chance to play!”

“You don’t know what you are saying, Rafael!” ex-
claimed his mother. “Why, your school days are the
happiest of your life! Some day you will realize that. I
declare, I don’t know what to do with you. You never
want to look at your lessons any more.”

Rafael’s grandfather, who had been listening to this
familiar dialogue, spoke suddenly: “Leave him to me,
daughter. I have a story to tell him, which I think is
just the right one for him to hear at present.”

“Oh, grandfather, have you?” cried Rafael joyously,
abandoning his game and running to a place at the old
man’s side. For one thing that Rafael liked better than
34 TALES OF BORINQUEN

playing was listening to his grandfather’s stories of the
past.»

As grandfather began, “About a hundred and thirty
years before you were born—" Rafael’s mother smiled
and disappeared within the house. She knew that if any
one could awaken in Rafael an interest in his studies it
was her wise father.

“About a hundred and thirty years before you were
born,” repeated grandfather, “there lived another little
boy named Rafael.”

Down at his grandfather’s side curled the boy. He
liked the beginning of the story.

“That little Rafael of long ago was a very different
boy from you, for no one, at any time, ever heard him say
that he did not want to study.”

“But, grandfather!” protested Rafael.

“Listen! In the year 1790 San Juan was a small,
walled city. There were no suburbs full of costly homes
and broad gardens as there are at present. The rich
Spaniards lived in grand houses of stucco and brick
with spacious patios inside. Many of these residences are
still standing in old San Juan. In fact, your father’s
house of business is the remodeled palace of a Spanish
nobleman from whom you are descended!”

This information was not new to Rafael, for his fam-
ily were extremely proud of their ancestry.

“But,” continued the grandfather, “the working people
were very, very poor in those days. As for the negroes,
they received no consideration at all, for slavery had not
yet been abolished in Porto Rico. There was only one
school in all San Juan and it was for the rich alone. The
colored people, even had they had sufficient money, would
RAFAEL 35

not have been allowed to attend it. Hence they had prac-
tically no opportunity for education.

“And the other little lad of whom I would tell you was
a colored boy. His full name was Rafael Cordero y
Molina.”

Our Rafael sat up very straight. “Why, grandfather,
I have often heard of him. He was a great Porto Rican.
One of the biggest schools in the city bears his name.”

“You are right. Let me tell you about him. One day
in October of the year 1790 a child was born in a humble
house in San Juan to poor parents named Lucas Cordero
and Rita Molina. If the child's skin was dark they loved
him none the less for that, because they, too, were dark.
The pretty, brown-eyed mother regarded her baby with
as much affection and hope for his future as any mother
in the land regarded her son. ‘Dear little Rafael,’ she
murmured, stroking the small curly head which rested
upon her arm. Then her eyes filled with tears. What
would be the future of her boy? She and her husband
had not enjoyed an easy lot. However, she need not have
worried for Rafael Cordero.

“Very soon these parents saw that theirs was an un-
usual son. From infancy Rafael was grave and thought-
ful. As soon as he could talk, he began to ask ques-
tions about everything and then wait patiently for the
answers. He seemed to muse over what he heard, and
he never forgot what he learned. Seeing that his boy
was intelligent, Lucas bought him some cheap little books
and, with the small knowledge that he possessed, labo-
riously taught his son to read. Soon the boy’s skill sur-
passed the father’s. Lucas and Rita marveled at this
child of theirs who drank knowledge as a thirsty traveler
36 TALES OF BORINQUEN

drinks at wayside springs, rising from each draught re-
fortified for his journey through life. In all possible
ways they encouraged him, wondering at his natural de-
sire for that education which was so universally denied
his race as to make most of them ignorant even of the pos-
sibility of learning anything.

“Then one evening the proud parents had a sad ex-
perience. Small Rafael came to them and stood looking
into their faces, as he said simply, ‘Mamita, papito, today
I found out that there is a place called a school, where one
spends the entire time reading and learning. I wish to
go to school.’

“Rita and Lucas glanced at each other in quick pain
and fear. The mother’s beautiful soft eyes filled with
tears. For a moment the father could not speak. The
time had arrived, then, when their Rafael, the pride of
their lives, must learn the bitter lesson that lay in store
for all of his race. But he was so young! It seemed so
pitiful, so cruel!

“ ‘Rafaelito, that is not possible,” said Lucas, tenderly.

“ ‘Why, papito?” It was the inevitable question.

“Before Lucas could answer, Rafael caught sight of
his mother’s tears. ‘Mamita, you are crying! What
for?

““ ‘Nothing, it is nothing, mi corazén,’ she replied hast-
ily.

“Then Rafael’s father took the serious little boy upon
his knee and explained why he could not go to school.
Rafael listened in silence. After Lucas had finished,
Rafael said nothing for a long time while his father and
mother waited trembling.
RAFAEL ; 37

“Now the soft tropical night had descended. Little
Rafael spoke, and his voice was calm and peaceful. ‘It
is dark,” he said. ‘We cannot see each other; thus we
do not seem different from any one else in the city. All
people must be the same to God, for He made them all.
Do not be sad. It is only that the white men do not re-
gard us carefully enough. Some day they will see our
souls. They will know that we are worthy, and then all
men will walk together. Do not cry, mamita. 1 am not
crying. I shall study twice as hard as I would have done
in the school. Some day when I am a man I will—"”

But just at this point several of grandfather’s friends
arrived to visit with him, and Rafael Amadeo was told
that he must wait for another time to hear the rest of the
story of Rafael Cordero. He went thoughtfully into the
house, looking for his school books. He did not feel like
playing any more just then, for he was thinking very
hard of what his grandfather had been telling him.

Even when Rafael went to bed that night, he was
still thinking of the poor boy who had desired so much
to go to school and could not. “It is not that way today,”
he thought proudly. “Our government has made it pos-
sible for every boy in the whole land to go to school and
learn as much as he wants to.” At this he felt a little
ashamed, remembering how he was always protesting
against studying. Then he went to sleep and dreamed
an end for the story of Rafael Cordero. . . .

The next afternoon Rafael Amadeo came to his grand-
father. “Last night,” he announced, “I dreamed about
Rafael Cordero. In my sleep I saw him as a little boy
who studied very hard in his home. Then I saw him
38 TALES OF BORINQUEN

as a powerful, successful man. Every one in San Juan
respected him. He had a bigger and finer automobile
than anybody else.”

“But Rafaelito,” interrupted his grandfather, “people
did not ride in automobiles a hundred years ago!”

Rafael laughed. “Dreams are queer,” he admitted.
“But, anyway, part of my dream was true. I know what
became of poor Rafael Cordero. He certainly did not
need to be ashamed when he grew up!”

“Tell me what you dreamed,” requested his grandfather,
curious as to what solution the boy’s unconscious mind
had put to the story begun the day before.

“Well,” said Rafael, “that poor boy studied and studied
every day, for he was determined to succeed when he
grew up. Isn't that right, grandfather?”

“It is all right so far. Go on. What was your dream-
boy's ambition? In what way did he succeed?”

“He wanted to be rich, so that he could give his father
and mother everything they desired, and so he could be
a powerful business man. And because he tried so hard,
he succeeded ; and when he was a man, he was a wealthy
merchant just like father! All of his life people respected
him, and his dark skin made no difference, because he
had more money than any of them. When he died, he
was happy, for he said: ‘I have plenty of money to leave
to my children, and they can all be educated and have
everything in the world that they want, and they can build
a school to remember me by!” Rafael finished trium-
phantly and looked up at his grandfather to receive the
praise which he believed he deserved after dreaming so
clever a dream.

He was surprised to discover his grandfather looking
RAFAEL 39

very, very grave indeed. The old man laid his hand
gently on his grandson's head. “No, Rafaelito,” he said
sadly. “No, no. You are very much mistaken. What
a deplorable thing this modern age is, when a boy, such
as you, is led to interpret success solely in the terms of
material riches and earthly power. Oh, Rafaelito, let me
tell you the real story of Rafael Cordero! Let me show
you what success truly is in the sight of God.

“Yesterday I left off at the place where Rafael was
about to make a resolution, on that dark night when he
found that he could never hope to go to school. He said
to his father and mother, not that he would strive to be
rich and powerful, but that when he grew to be a man, he
would use the knowledge he intended to gain through his
studies to teach all unfortunate boys like himself who
were not privileged to attend school.”

Grandfather paused. Rafael drew a long breath. “I
am sorry I had such a dream,” he whispered. “Tell me
the rest, grandfather, please.” :

“You could not help what vou dreamed, little boy!”
exclaimed grandfather, and continued: “From that night
on Rafael Cordero spent all of his days studying. He
was so conscientious that it was truthfully said of him:
‘He was a man without being a boy.” He had no time
to partake of the pleasures of youth, for he had dedi-
cated his life to a serious and noble purpose.

“When he had reached the age of twenty years, Rafael
Cordero opened his school, which he maintained faithfully
and without hope of recompense until the time of his
death, fifty-eight years later! But do not think for a mo-
ment that he held his classes in that magnificent school.
building which bears his name today! No, Rafael Cor-
40 TALES OF BORINQUEN

dero’s lessons were taught in a room of his own humble
dwelling. Nor was he able to devote his entire energy to
the imparting of knowledge. An invalid sister depended
upon him for support, and he himself had to have food
and shelter. Unwilling to take the time from teaching to
earn his necessary livelihood, he used to make cigars,
while his pupils sat near him and received the rudiments
of intellectual training.

“Poor Rafael had had no opportunity for higher learn-
ing, hence the knowledge he had gained was simple. But
so well and sympathetically did he impart what he had
acquired through years of patient study, that soon his
modest school became known as the best place in San
Juan to receive elementary instruction. At first he taught
only poor children, but as his reputation grew, parents
of the rich sought his wise guidance for their small sons,
and kindly Maestro Rafael turned no one who sought
knowledge from his door. His sister, ‘la maestra Celes-
tina,” followed her brother’s noble example and attempted
to teach all that she knew to a group of poor little girls
who had even fewer opportunities than the boys.

“It was impossible that so many years of unselfish
service should go unrewarded. Some of Maestro Ra-
fael’s wealthy patrons presented him with gifts; others
interested themselves in the affairs of the poor cigar-
maker until finally, when the Maestro was an old man,
they persuaded the authorities to grant him a meager
stipend, much less than even the lowest paid teacher re-
ceives today. This, however, was only after he had freely
given many years of service in the sacred name of educa-
tion.

“One time, after the granting of this salary, the master
“Rafael Cordero’s lessons were

 

(From the painting by Don Francisco Oller)

taught in a room of his own humble dwelling.”

TAVAVYE

A»
ft
42 TALES OF BORINQUEN

fell ill and for eight days was unable to hold his school.
Later he called in the men responsible for his pay and
said to them: ‘I understand that my hour is near at
hand and that God calls me to Him. For eight days it
has been impossible for me to give classes; these chil-
dren need intellectual nourishment and, as I do not desire
that which is not rightfully mine, discount the eight days
in which I have not been able to fulfill my duties, so that
they may seek another master in my stead; and commend
my soul to God.’

“What a noble character was this which felt at such
pains to settle an imaginary debt, in a life so free from
all indebtedness!

“Rafael Cordero was a deeply religious man, and the
renown of his virtues spread far and wide, even bringing
him a prize of money on one occasion; but in spite of this
he never lost his humbleness, never believed himself to
be of importance. At one time he said: ‘I never write
down anything in this life, because I do not wish to re-
member today the good which I did yesterday. My de-
sire is that the night shall blot out the meritorious work
which T may have been able to perform during the day.’
Oh, Rafaelito,” said grandfather, “what a beautiful world
it would be if all of us might be satisfied, as was Rafael
Cordero, to do the deed for its own sake without thought
or desire of credit and reward!

“As time passed, literally hundreds of students,
strengthened with knowledge, went forth from the lowly
door of Maestro Rafael, among them many boys who
were destined later to stand with the foremost citizens of
the land. There were José Julian Acosta and Roman
Baldorioty de Castro, with whose praise our shores have
RAFAEL 43

echoed and reéchoed. At last the renown of Rafael
Cordero reached beyond the bounds of Porto Rico, and
his splendid patriotic work was lauded in one of the lead-
ing periodicals of Madrid.

“And as Maestro Rafael walked the streets of San
Juan, he was greeted with friendly smiles by all, and
many men of high station sought his modest home to
listen to his calm words of wisdom.

“Finally his long life of service drew near its close.
With peace born of profound faith Maestro Rafael
awaited the end. He called about him many of his old
pupils who lived near at hand, and blessed them. Then
he said: ‘The peor old man who infused into you the
‘love of learning is going away forever; only a few mo-
ments of life remain to him.’

“They regarded their venerable teacher with sorrow
and deep affection, for despite the color of his skin, the
remarkable nobility and purity of his soul were visible to
them. As Rafael himself had once foretold, so did these
boys and men stand with him now in equality ; nay more,
they remained in humility before him, for they knew
that his was the best and the noblest heart among them
all.

“A short while thereafter he cried with fervor, ‘Re-
ceive me, O Lord, in thy bosom!” and so the good Maestro
died.”

“Oh, grandfather, it is so sad!” exclaimed Rafael, who
was crying.

“No, little boy, it is not sad,” replied his old grand-
parent. “Maestro Rafael went to that peace which he
~ had so righteously earned, after a life, the value of which
can scarcely be estimated. He died without regret, for
44 TALES OF BORINQUEN

in his youth he had made a worthy and good resolution
and had spent the rest of his life carrying it out to the
very best of his ability with never a selfish thought. His
is the noblest example I know of. If all of us could
shape our lives on so simple and so admirable a pattern
and proceed to carry them through, then none of us
would need to feel any regret as our days draw to a close.
Death is only sad when it claims a life of unfulfilled pos-
sibilities.

“So, on the fifth of July, 1868, in his humble dwelling
on Luna Street, Rafael Cordero died, poor in this world’s
goods, as he was born, but rich, oh, far richer than kings,
in the simple sum of his happiness and his contribution
to the common fund of human good ; rich in the possession
of years well spent; rich in the admiration and esteem of
men! More than two thousand people joined in the pro-
cession which followed the Maestro to his final resting-
place, and every heart beat with love and homage for the
one whose body they tenderly laid away, but whose good
influence they knew would live forever among them and
their descendants. And so strongly has that memory
endured that men cannot do enough to reverence it. They
build schools more magnificent than any Rafael Cordero
ever imagined and endow them with his name. They sing
his praises far and wide and place him among the illus-
trious men of his land.

“So, Rafael, my grandson, remember the other Rafael
of days gone by. Remember wherein lay his success.
Compare your opportunities with his. Try to value life
as he valued it. When studies and school seem irksome,
close your eyes for a moment and seek guidance from
RAFAEL 45

 

 

 

Rafael Cordero School in Santurce.

Maestro Rafael, who placed education in its proper cate-
gory above all honors, riches, and powers which life had
to offer!”

“Thank you, grandfather, I shall remember. How I
wish Rafael Cordero had lived to see this day, when all
men have equal rights and every girl and boy may go to
school! I like the name Rafael, also,” he added. “I
am glad they called me that. And grandfather, do you
know what I think?”

“What, little boy?”

“I think that somewhere, somehow, Maestro Rafael
must be watching over the schools of Porto Rico. Why,
I believe the spirit of Rafael Cordero, our first real ‘pub-
lic school teacher,” must be the very spirit of the schools
of our island to-day, for they do not deny education to
anybody!”
 

LAS PALMAS DE PUERTO RICO

COCONUT PALMS

Round the seacoast I have seen them,
Stately, tall, and curved, and fronded,
With aigrettes of shining plumage—
Groves of supple, whispering palm trees,
Rocking, rustling, telling secrets,
When the breeze sways them together,
When the moonlight turns them silver.
46
LAS PALMAS DE PUERTO RICO 47

Once I saw them on an evening,

As I wandered just at sunset—

Saw their dresses green of daytime
Change to gold and then to scarlet—
Magic fabrics wove in heaven!

When the full moon rose behind them,
They seemed ladies clothed in sable,
Each with sparkling jeweled headdress.
So I fancied, they are ladies—

Lovely ladies of Borinquen,

Who in time long since forgotten
Strolled down blithely to the seashore,
There to bathe in charmed waters—
Graceful ladies of Borinquen

Of a time long since forgotten.

And my fancy strayed on further,

As the Moon smiled down upon them,
For, I thought, twas she who did this—
She who wrought that Ancient Magic
Which transformed them while they lingered,
Glistening as they came from bathing,
Whispering ere they started homeward—
She who turned them into palm trees,
Ever since then, swaying, rustling,
Telling secrets in the moonlight,
Changing dresses with the sunset,
Laughing, graceful, lovely, charming,
Just as ladies always have been,

Standing there in whispering circles,
Just as ladies ever will be.
48

TALES OF BORINQUEN

ROYAL PALMS

Then I wandered in Borinquen,

Over mountains, through deep valleys,
And where'er my eye went roving—

On the hilltops, by the roadsides,

Near the rivers, in the meadows—

Tall and straight and firm as marble,
Grew majestic royal palm trees,

Each one decked with fronds like feathers
Of an Indian warrior’s headpiece.

And I thought then, they are warriors,
Warriors of a day forgotten,

(Quick remembering those ladies
Whispering upon the seashore)

Brave men of a time long vanished.
For my fancy, ever agile

In Borinquen’s sun and moonlight,
Wove a dream about these palm trees,
Saw them changed by Ancient Magic
Into guardsmen of the Island.

It was on that distant evening

When the ladies came not homeward,
That these warriors, tall and fearless—
Some before their doorways standing,
Others filing through the valleys,
Many climbing up the mountains,
Some atop attending signals—
Waited vainly for their ladies.
LAS PALMAS DE PUERTO RICO 49

 

a

 

 

 

“Tall and straight and firm as marble,”
50

TALES OF BORINQUEN

Thus the night wore on, till morning
Loosed the Sun from eastern gateway,
And he laughed upon the Island—
On the men so grim and silent,

For the smiling Moon had told him,
As she slipped from out the heavens,
Of the magic she had wafted

O’er the ladies as they tarried.

So the Sun, not to be rivaled,
Earthward turned his mighty scepter,
Changed the warriors into palm trees—
Ever upright, always watching,

Near the rivers, by the roadways,

In the valleys, on the hilltops—

Tall and straight and firm as marble,
Faithful guardsmen of Borinquen.
GOOD WILL
(A CHRISTMAS STORY)

PART I

To Manolin Sanchez, his Aint Rosalinda, even
though he had never seen her, was the most romantic
person in the world. Every time a letter from her
arrived in Aibonito, he begged his father to tell him
about her once again.

“But, Manolin,” protested Don Angel, “you have
heard the story of Rosalinda a hundred times or more
already! I'm sure that you know it better than I do.”

“Please, father!”

“Very well, then,” consented Sefor Sanchez and be-
gan: “It was in August of the year 1898, when the
Spanish-American war came to an end, and the flag of
the United States was raised in Porto Rico. I was cap-
tain of a company in a Spanish regiment which shortly
after the armistice was ordered to Spain. I did not
want to go, for that meant I would have to leave my
father, mother, and sister. However, one cannot do as
he wishes while in the army. 1 intended to resign as
soon as possible and return to Porto Rico. The day I
came here to Aibonito to bid my old parents farewell,
Rosalinda, who was then a beautiful young lady about
nineteen years old, promised me, with tears in her eyes,

51
52 TALES OF BORINQUEN

‘I shall care for our mother and father while you are
away as though IT were a man, Angel. Have no fear
for them.” But even while she spoke, I seemed to have
a feeling that all would not be well—that perhaps I
should never see any of them again.

“I was certainly not very light-hearted as I embarked
for Spain, for I realized that a long time must pass be-
fore 1 could hear from home. It was the following
March before a letter from Rosalinda reassured my
anxious heart. The health of my parents was excellent,
the coffee crop flourished, my home awaited me, and all
three of my dear ones lived but for my return. Natu-
raliy T ceased to worry as I had been doing. Thoughts
of the warm sunny days of my native island cheered me.
No harm could come to those who lived in such a peace-
ful land. So passed several tranquil months.

“Suddenly terrible news reached Spain. On August
8, 1899, a disastrous hurricane had swept the island of
Porto Rico with its ravaging winds and torrential rains.
A similar catastrophe, it was reported, had not been ex-
perienced in Borinquen for many years. And not a
word from my sister, my father, my mother! Oh,
Manolin, they were days of intense anguish for me!”

Manolin trembled with excitement, for, from hear-
ing the story many times, he knew exactly what would
follow. But he would not have interrupted his father
for anything, because he never tired of hearing every
thrilling word.

“As soon as the fearful hurricane had passed,” con-
tinued Sefior Sanchez, “Brigadier General Davis, who
was then the Governor of Porto Rico, organized relief
parties, headed by his army officers. They were to go
GOOD WILL 53

 

 

Old Spanish bridge on the Military Roac

IA
54 TALES OF BORINQUEN

to all parts of the island at once to help the suffering
people rebuild their homes, to bring them food and
medicine, to give them clothing, and to assist them to
bury their dead—for many hundreds of people lost their
lives during that devastating storm, Manolin.”

Sefior Sanchez stopped a moment, as he always did
at this point. Manolin wiped away a tear with his coat
sleeve. “Oh, father,” he whispered, “I hope God never
lets another such hurricane come to Porto Rico.”

“We all pray that He may not, my son. The hurri-
cane of San Ciriaco stands almost unparalleled in our
entire history.”

“And what happened next, father?”

Senor Sanchez smiled. Ile knew that now was com-
ing his son’s favorite part of the story. “Among those
sent out by Governor Davis,” he said, “there was a young
American, Captain Thomas Steele. It happened that
the district into which he and his workers carried aid
was this one of Aibonito. It took several days to get
here from San Juan, for the Military Road was ob-
structed by fallen trees, wreckage of all description, and
numerous landslides. Naturally they had to render aid
to many people all along the way. When finally Cap-
tain Steele, or Captain Tom, as he was familiarly called,
drew near Aibonito, a young peon rushed up to him and
began to speak imploringly in Spanish. One of the men
interpreted: ‘Capitan, this boy entreats you to accom-
pany him. He says that very near there is a coffee
plantation in utter ruin, where some people are in des-
perate need of assistance.’

“Captain Tom agreed to go at once and, selecting two
men to accompany him, ordered all the rest to proceed
GOOD WILL 55

towards Aibonito. As he followed the agitated coffee-
worker along the little side road, leading to the finca, he
was horrified to see the damage all around. The storm
demon seemed to have been at his strongest here. All
of the frail coffee bushes were laid to the ground. Fully
half of the great guaba trees which had shaded them
were broken off as though they had been mere twigs.
In one place he saw the thatched bohio of a workman
lodged in the very top of a big acacia tree where the
wind had blown it! But even this scarcely prepared
him for the sight he witnessed when he emerged into
the clearing where the fine country home had stood.
Not a single part of it remained standing except the
curved concrete steps which had led up to the front bal-
cony.”

“The very steps on which we are sitting at this mo-
ment!” thought Manolin, because he knew that his
father’s house had been built on the same spot where
his grandfather’s had stood.

“With fear in his heart for what he might find there,
Captain Tom advanced toward the ruins. All over what
had once been a beautiful garden were strewn broken
pieces of fine furniture—tables, chairs, beds, consoles,
chests, all of solid mahogany. Captain Tom now heard
a low moaning and, hastening in the direction of the
sound, discovered a small wooden hut which had miracu-
lously been spared by the tempest. Two old women
were seated in the doorway, swaying back and forth,
weeping and groaning. Near them stood some hungry-
looking children. One of the old women, glancing up,
saw the American officer and stopped weeping in aston-
ishment.
56 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“50ué le pasa a usted, Seitora?’ asked the interpreter
kindly.

“For answer she raised her shaking hand and simply
pointed, as though her heart were tco full to admit of
speech. Captain Tom went as she indicated, around
the corner of the hut. A short distance away among
the trees he saw a sorrowful sight. There were two
large mounds of fresh-turned earth, which he realized
at once to be graves. Beside one several women and
children were weeping, and beside the other knelt a young
girl, her head bowed in grief.

“As Captain Tom approached, she looked up, and in
spite of the pallor and weariness caused by fear and be-
reavement, he realized instantly that she was the loveliest
girl he had ever seen. He at once understood that some
one of her dear ones must be buried beneath that mound,
and his kind heart was so suffused with sorrow that he
could not speak a word, but stood gazing with the ut-
most pity at her. She rose and staggered towards him,
and he saw that her once beautiful dress was tattered and
covered with mud. When she spoke, even though her
voice was hoarse from crying and weak from hunger,
Captain Tom thought he had never heard music that was
sweeter.

“ ‘What do you wish, seiior oficial?’ she asked, gra-
cious even in the midst of her suffering. But suddenly
she swayed and gasping, ‘Virgen de la Salud, que me
ayudes! fell unconscious. Captain Tom leaped forward
and caught her in his strong arms before she touched
the ground. As he carried her tenderly to a hammock
in the little hut, he ordered his men to build a fire at once
and heat some of the provisions that they had brought.
GOOD WILL 57

At this moment three men appeared, who had been
scouring the countryside for food. They had managed
to secure a few flames and yautias. The hearts of all
now being somewhat cheered, the women began to help
the two men who had already lighted a fire.

“In the meantime the compassionate American officer
unrolled his first-aid kit and applied restoratives to the
unconscious girl.  ‘Capitdn, whispered his interpreter,
‘they tell me that that was the grave of her father and
mother beside which she knelt. Both of them lost their
lives in the storm. She is now an orphan, with no one
left in the world except her brother, who is in Spain, a
captain in the Spanish army. Her name is Rosalinda
Sanchez, and may God have pity upon her! he added
piously.

“ ‘And who lies in the other grave?’ asked Captain Tom.

“ ‘Seven of the coffee-workers who also succumbed,’
replied his interpreter sadly.

“Captain Tom stood looking down at the charming
face of Rosalinda. ‘Do not be too sad,” he said compas-
sionately. ‘There is still much of life before you.” As
if in answer to his thought, her lovely eyes opened, and,
as she looked into the anxious, pitying face above hers,
she smiled faintly—a smile like an echo of former happy
days. A moment later, as she remembered, sorrow once
more clouded her countenance.

“The food was now ready, and after everyone had
eaten, Captain Tom told them all that they must come
with him into Aibonito, as there they would find plenty of
food, shelter, and aid. Rosalinda, not wishing to leave
the grave of her beloved parents, wept bitterly, but Cap-
tain Tom, by persistent entreaties spoken through the
a TALES OF BORINQUEN

interpreter, at last persuaded her to accompany him to
the town, where she said she had many friends. ‘If all
have not perished in this terrible disaster,” she added and
wept again.

“As soon as Rosalinda was established in the home of
sympathetic friends, she begged her rescuer to send word
to me in Spain. As days had passed since the first re-
ports of the storm and I had received no further news
from Porto Rico, I was nearly frantic with suspense.

“It was necessary for Captain Tom to spend many
weeks directing the reconstruction work in Aibonito.
During that time he came nearly every evening to see
Rosalinda. At first he brought her sympathy and com-
fort; later he tried to-cheer her, to bring a little happiness
into her desolated life. Sometimes he stood outside the
grilled window and talked to my pretty sister after the
manner of a real Spanish hidalgo. At other times, when
the friendly family were assembled in the sala, he would
enter and sit beside Rosalinda. Even before my sister
realized it, the dueiia of the house, Dona Carmen, sur-
mised that Captain Tom was courting Rosalinda. Dona
Carmen used to smile fondly at the pair, as the gallant
young American officer tried to teach the beautiful Span-
ish seflorita his language, and as she, in turn, tried to
teach him hers. But the language of love may be word-
less. The kindness, the gentleness, the thoughtfulness of
the young captain towards Rosalinda and-all of her suf-
fering people soon won my sister's admiration and friend-
ship.

“Then one day, as Rosalinda sat on the balcony, she
heard two men mention the name of Captain Tom.
‘That officer from the army of -the United States is one
GOOD WILL 59

of the most admirable men I have ever known! said
one. ‘What he has done for us Porto Ricans will never
be forgotten. Any bitterness that remained after the
war has been entirely wiped out by his great and noble
service among us since San Ciriaco.” ‘You are right, my
friend,” replied the other, ‘and I think that it will be a
distinct loss for Atbanito when he departs, as he is sure
to do now very soon.’

“As Rosalinda heard these words, she felt her heart
contract with pain. It was then she realized that if
Captain Tom went out of her life there would be no
more happiness for her. . . .

“And, as though he had simultaneously reached the
same conclusion, that very evening Captain Tom de-
clared that he loved her and wished to marry her!

“Joy, such as she had never hoped to feel again, flooded
Rosalinda’s heart. But suddenly her happiness turned
to apprehension. ‘I can never be married,” she whis-
pered, ‘without the consent of my brother, for he is
the only member of my family left, and, oh, Captain
Tom, you know that he is an officer in the Spanish army!
I am sure that he will never favor my marriage with an
officer in the army of our recent enemy! I do not mean
that you are an enemy!” she added hastily, seeing a look
of pain cross his face, ‘for you have proven your friend-
ship for all of my people by your unselfish work among
us. But my brother has not seen that, and I fear, even
though he intends to resign from the Spanish army and
come back to be a coffee grower, that he may feel it would
not be either patriotic or honorable for me to marry
you!’

“Though Rosalinda did not know it, I had already
60 TALES OF BORINQUEN

been honorably discharged and was preparing to sail for
Porto Rico at the first opportunity. By this time I had
received letters from her, in which she mentioned the
American officer. I can tell you, Manolin,” said Sefior
Sanchez with a reminiscent smile, ‘that she was right.
I did not relish the idea of my sister's friendship with
an officer of the United States Army. ‘If it had not been
for those men,’ I thought bitterly, ‘I would not have been
in Spain! 1 might have saved my poor old father and
mother!’

“About two weeks before Christmas, Captain Tom
told Rosalinda that he must leave the day following that
holiday, by order of the Governor. Poor Rosalinda was
stricken with grief; but still she feared to give him the
answer that he longed to hear. ‘Wait,’ she begged. ‘My
brother comes. Even now he may be on the sea.’

“Time passed and still T had not arrived. Captain
Tom had only one more day in Aibonito, when sud-
denly—"

“You arrived, father!” shouted Manolin happily, un-
able to keep silent longer.

“Yes, I arrived on Christmas morning! After I had
embraced my sister, and our tears of sorrow had mingled,
I said, ‘Let us go to the grave of our parents, Rosalinda,
that my heart may find relief

“So together we walked out into the country. Rosa-
linda clung to my arm, telling me over and over about
her brave Captain Tom. ‘You could not refuse me,
Angel, if you knew how good he has been to me, to all
our people. Truly, he has behaved like a brother! So
have all the Americans who have aided us during this
time of misery. You have been in Spain. You cannot

Ls ical
GOOD WILL 61

know ; but ask the people of Aibonito—and they will tell
you about Captain Steele.’

“ ‘But, Rosalinda,’ I said, somewhat bewildered by her
vehemence, ‘he will want to take you far away. You
will have to go with him to strange lands and familiarize
yourself with new customs. You will not be happy.’

“‘He is the man I love,’ replied my sister bravely.
‘I would accompany him anywhere with joy! Without
him I can never be happy.’

“I said no more just then, believing that I could con-
vince her later. As we came upon the ruins of the home
of our parents, and as we stood beside their pitiful grave,
I cried like a child, soldier though I was. Ieeling our
loneliness for the first time, I begged Rosalinda never to
leave me, as I had no one else in the world but her.
Moved by my emotion, she started to promise; then she
suddenly stopped. I raised my head, and there, on the
other side of the grave stood a stranger—a man in the
uniform of an American captain!

“I drew myself up at once in an attitude of offended
pride that this person should have intruded upon our
sorrow. I was glaring at him angrily,-when I heard my
sister murmur “Tom! and realized that he was the very
one we had been discussing.

“There we stood, two officers, one of the United States
of America, the other of the Kingdom of Spain, with
‘the grave of my father and mother between us. As I
stared haughtily at him, I was amazed to see his blue eyes
fill with tears. I had not thought they were capable of
weeping, those Americans, who seemed to be forever
laughing and joking.

“My surprise mounted, as he began to speak in the
62 TALES OF BORINQUEN

excellent Spanish he had already acquired, mainly
through my sister’s diligent instruction. ‘You, Sefior,’
he said in a low voice full of sympathy, ‘must be Cap-
tain Sanchez. I greet you.” Then, after he had saluted
me as one officer would another of equal rank, he con-
tinued, ‘Allow me to express my deepest sympathy to you
on this holy Christmas Day at this sacred spot. Be-
lieve me, the sufferings of your sister and of all Porto
Rico have wrung my heart with pity. Great catastrophes
of nature, such as this one, unite all men for common
protection, and of erstwhile enemies make brothers! Let
me assure you, Captain Sanchez, of the warm friend-
ship that all of my people feel toward all of yours.
Surely you will extend me the hand of fellowship at the
grave of your beloved parents, in the presence of your
dear sister, whom I first discovered kneeling here in her
sorrow.’

“At that, to my surprise, he extended his hand toward
me across the grave. I am ashamed to say, Manolin,
that I still hesitated.

“Then it was that Captain Tom said: ‘Remember,
Captain Sanchez, this is the day that the angels sang,
“Peace on earth, good will toward men.” 1 entreat you
to let there be no bitterness between us! Let us hence-
forth be as brothers!

“No one could have withstood such simple and beau-
tiful eloquence. Impulsively I, too, extended my hand
and clasped that of the American, while I heard Rosa-
linda weeping softly at my side. It was a solemn mo-
ment in which we pledged brotherhood, Manolin, over
the grave of your grandparents, and one which remains
with me as vividly as though it had happened yesterday.
GOOD WILL 63

“And Tom and I are still brothers. For not only did
he marry my sister, your pretty Aunt Rosalinda, but he
has been a warm friend of Porto Rico ever since, just as
I am of the United States. Every Christmas we have
renewed our vows. Wherever he is, I send a message to
Captain Tom, and he writes one to me. As for your
Aunt Rosalinda, she sends a wreath for her parents’
tomb on All Souls’ Day, every first of November. She
writes very often, though I have never seen her since
that day after Christmas, more than twenty-four years
ago, when she married her captain and went away with
him. Since then she has visited many parts of the world
—the Philippines, Hawaii, China, Panama—"

Manolin knew all this, for he had often seen the piles
of yellowing letters, saved by his father, with their queer
foreign postage stamps and postmarks from all over the
world.

“And now the rest, please,” he begged.

Don Angel laughed. “You are a greedy little boy!” he
said. “After your Uncle Tom left the army, he went back
to his father’s farm in the State of Indiana, and there he
and your Aunt Rosalinda and your four cousins, Francis,
Mary, John, and William, live to this very day!”

Manolin sighed, as his father finished, and looked
dreamily away across the blue mountains, wondering
whether he would ever be so fortunate as to see these
wonderful people about whom he had heard during all
his life i,

PART 17

“Manolin! Manolin!” called Don Angel one day in
September.
64 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Manolin came running. ‘Yes, father?”

Don Angel held a slip of green paper and an envelope
in his hand. “Here is a letter from your Uncle Tom.”

“7 Bueno!” shouted the boy. “But, father, I thought
he wrote to you only at Christmas time.”

“So he does, usually; but this is something very
special. Listen while I read you a part of what he says.”

When Don Angel finished reading, Manolin remained
speechless with delight, for Captain Tom had invited his
nephew to spend Christmas with his cousins on their
Indiana farm; and, moreover, he had sent a check to pay
for Manolin's steamship and railroad fare! “Every
year,” he had written to his brother-in-law, “you and I
exchange messages of fidelity ; let me ask for a more con-
crete expression this year, my dear Angel. Send your
Manolin as a little messenger of good will between us!”

“A messenger of good will!” Manolin drew a long
breath. “I am going to study English, English, and
more English, every instant before I sail,” he declared.

Although Manolin was busy with his numerous prepa-
rations, the days seemed to creep, as he thought how
much he longed to know his Aunt Rosalinda and feared
that something might prevent him from going to her.
Four months seem endless to an impatient boy. For
Manolin’s fond parents, however, the day when their son
was to sail away was approaching all too rapidly.

They prepared a surprise for Manolin by sending to
New York for an outfit of boy's winter clothing. One
day Don Angel came home from the post office with a
huge package. When Manolin unwrapped it, he beamed
with pleasure and insisted that he must try on every
single thing. First there were woolen stockings and
GOOD WILL 65

heavy leather shoes, which laced halfway up his sturdy
legs. By the time he had these on, the perspiration was
pouring down his face, for it was a typical hot October
day. But Manolin bravely donned a khaki shirt, a red
necktie, and a warm brown winter suit. A red woolen
muffler baffled him. He first wrapped it around his waist
like a bull-fighter’s sash.

“No, hijito, it is to wear around your neck,” smiled his
father. :

“But what for?” asked Manolin.

“To keep you warm!”

Manolin looked incredulous. Nevertheless he wrapped
the scarf about his throat. Red, as from winter frost,
were Manolin’s cheeks with the heat he now suffered.
Then, to make him warmer if possible, there was a heavy
overcoat of gray chinchilla cloth. Manolin struggled
into it. His father handed him a gray, fur-lined cap,
with a queer flap hanging from either side. “They are
‘ear muffs,” ” explained Don Angel, “to keep your ears
warm.” Manolin laughed and immediately put on the
cap. He even fastened under his chin the strap which
held the muffs firmly over his ears. Last there was a
pair of thick gray gloves. When the boy had pulled
them on, only his face was visible, and he felt as though
he were melting away. Nevertheless he surveyed him-
self with immense pride in the long mirror over the
console table and marched awkwardly about. Just then
an old servant entered the room. “;Awe Maria!” she
cried, nearly fainting with alarm at his odd appearance.

As Manolin hastily removed his new clothes, he said:
“Now for a cold shower-bath! 1 cannot imagine that
I shall ever need to wear such heavy clothes, father!”
66 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“You will see,” laughed Don Angel. “I shall not be
surprised if your mother and I receive a letter from you
asking us why we did not provide you with even warmer
clothing. You have not the slightest idea what really
cold weather is!” :

Manolin enthusiastically collected Porto Rican Christ-
mas presents to take to his relatives in the North. He
had baskets, giiicharos, bordados, native-wood canes,
straw hats, coconut heads, and many other typical native
souvenirs. His father entrusted him with a large flat
package which he was to give to his Aunt Rosalinda on
Christmas Eve.

Very early in the morning on the day of departure
Manolin and his parents came over the famous Military
Road to San Juan from Aibonito. Manolin had never
taken an ocean voyage, and he was nearly ill with excite-
ment as they all went on board the steamship Coamo.
There they met Sefior Mufoz, a friend of Don Angel’s,
who had promised to take care of Manolin and put him
on the train for Indiana. While still in Aibonito Mano-
lin had secretly thought that he was quite capable of doing
everything for himself; but now, when he saw the huge
ship, the confusing crowds of strange people, and realized
that he was leaving his dear parents, he was very grate-
ful for Senor Mufioz’s company.

As the Coamo pulled gracefully away from its moor-
ing, Manolin waved vigorously to his mother and father,
who were standing on the outermost end of the pier.
In spite of all his efforts to smile bravely his throat felt
choked, and hot tears fell on his starched white linen
suit. Manolin would not have beens normal boy had
he not felt sad at leaving his parents.
GOOD WILL 67

As soon, however, as the steamer had left Porto
Rico like a blue cloud in the distance, Manolin began to
anticipate the wonderful adventures that lay before him.
He was enchanted with the ship, the broad sapphire ocean,
the kindly people, including several boys his own age,
who were on board. He soon made friends with one

 

 

“Manolin waved vigorously to his mother and father.”

of the white-uniformed officers. Manolin confided to
this man that his parents had bought him some extremely
thick winter clothing, which he was sure he was not
going to need, as they were already far at sea, and he felt
just as comfortable as ever. “It is not as though I were
going into the Arctic Ocean!” declared Manolin.

“You will think that that is where you are, soon
enough!” laughed the officer.

And, indeed, Manolin did think so. The very next
morning he noticed an unwonted chill in the air and
donned a light-weight suit that he had been accustomed
68 TALES OF BORINQUEN

to wear during the months of January and February in
Aibonito. The third day he gratefully put on his heavy
brown suit and did not venture on to the open deck at
all. The fourth day, which was Sunday, Manolin looked
out of the porthole on a gray and angry winter sea. He
shivered. And when he dressed, he put on his entire
winter outfit even to the ear-muffs, wondering the while
whether these clothes would really be warm enough for
him when landing the next morning!

The ship steamed into New York harbor in the midst
of such a dense fog that the excited Porto Rican lad, who
had risen long before daylight, could not see a single one
of the marvels he had read and heard about. But when
they had passed quarantine and were approaching the
dock, the fog rolled up, and by the light of a cold, pale,
winter sun, Manolin had his first thrilling glimpse of
the Statue of Liberty and of the far-famed Manhattan
skyline—a sight, once seen, never forgotten, for there
is nothing like it in the world!

Manolin’s impression of the great metropolis was brief
and dazed, for he had to take the train for Indiana at
once if he was to arrive there for Christmas. It was
planned that he should spend a week with some friends of
his father’s when he returned to the city in the spring.
Now the sky was dark with clouds, and an icy rain was
falling. All the electric lights in the buildings were blaz-
ing as though it were midnight! As the taxi sped along,
Manolin had a feeling that all the people in creation must
be crowded into the New York streets.

The vast Pennsylvania Railway Station, with its
hastening throngs, its roar of excited voices, fairly took
GOOD WILL 69

the boy’s breath away in wonder, and he clung tightly to
Seftor Muiloz’s hand, while they hurried towards the
gate which would admit them to the proper train.

When Manolin saw the long, long line of coaches, he
felt as though he could not bear to part with the friendly
gentleman who was his very last link with his home-
land. Bui, as they entered the luxurious, brightly
lighted Pullman car, he was considerably cheered. Sefior
Munoz called the porter, in order to place Manolin in his
charge. And, lo and behold, when the porter appeared,
he proved to be a big, smiling negro from the Island of
St. Thomas, who said he had spent a year in Porto Rico
before coming to the States! He smiled broadly at
Manolin, simply delighted to see some one from so near
his own native island, and he promised Sefior Mufoz to
care for the boy as though he were his own son.

“1 Adios!” cried Sefor Muioz cheerfully. “I am go-
ing to send a telegram to your aunt and uncle!”

“tUn nullén de gracias por todo! [Adiés!” replied
grateful Manolin.

The enormous train, which was full of gay people
going to different parts of the country for the Christmas
holidays, pulled away from the station so softly that
Manolin was scarcely aware that it was moving. He
waited eagerly for the first glimpse of daylight; but, to
his terror, the train plunged roaring into darkness.

“What is it?” he tremulously asked of Oliver, the
friendly St. Thomas porter.

“Don’t you worry, Manolin,” laughed Oliver. “We
is only passing through the Hudson Tunnel now.”

“What is that?” quavered the boy.
70 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“It am a hole cut in the ground, sonny, for the trains
to pass through,” explained Oliver, in his queer English,
and added, “It runs right under a big river.”

This was anything but reassuring to poor Manolin,
who was terrified at the thought of being under a river.
Oh, would the fearful tunnel never come to an end? He
prayed that the train might move more and more swiftly.
After what seemed hours but was really only a few min-
utes, they suddenly emerged from the black tunnel into
the gray winter daylight.

“We is now in the state of New Jersey,” announced
Oliver.

Manolin’s fear vanished as he looked quickly out of
the window. He had studied about New Jersey in
geography. In fact, from then on, he was so interested
and thrilled by all he saw that he was not homesick for
a moment. How warm and comfortable he was in the
train! How fascinating was the winter landscape out-
side! And the size of the United States! Already they
had rushed through mile after mile of country, and
when Manolin timidly asked Oliver if they were not al-
most to Indiana, Oliver shouted with laughter and in-
formed him that not only were they still in the state of
New Jersey, but that they would have to go the rest of
that day and nearly all of the next before Manolin would
reach his destination! The boy was secretly alarmed.
Where would he eat? Where would he sleep? Soon
he forgot to worry in his wonderment at the increasing
number of large towns and cities through which the train
passed. “Why don’t we stop at every town?” he asked
the porter.

“Huh!” sniffed Oliver. “Some of them towns is so
GOOD WILL 71

little that the engineer who runs this train can’t even
see them. They am not important enough for us to stop
at, Manolin.”

The boy was amazed, for many of these towns seemed
larger than Aibonito! “What a marvelous country!”
he thought. When they arrived at Philadelphia later in
the afternoon, Manolin was astonished to see that here
was another city, apparently as large as New York itself.

They pulled out of Philadelphia into the beautiful
rolling countryside of Pennsylvania. And then, as
Manolin stared out of the window, he observed that the
air, as far as he could see, was suddenly filled with a
white cottony-looking substance. He did not have to
ask Oliver what this was. He knew. It was snow!
Manolin could scarcely sit still. He wanted to jump, to
shout, to leave the train, that he might play in that rare
substance which was fast concealing the dark ground, the
bare trees, the roof-tops, everything, under a soft white
covering more exquisite than he had dreamed anything
could be. How regretful he was when twilight fell!

As soon as he could no longer see the landscape, he
began to think how hungry he was. Just then a colored
man, dressed in white with brass buttons, walked through
the Pullman car, calling in a loud voice, *‘Fir-r-r-st
ca-a-all for di-i-inner! Di-i-ining c-a-a-r in the re-e-e-
e-ar!”

After he had gone, Manolin noticed some of the pas-
sengers rise and disappear. “What did he say?’ he
asked Oliver.

“He say that dinner am ready, young man,” answered
Oliver promptly, “and if you follows me, I will show you
where it am!”

)
72 TALES OF BORINQUEN

So Manolin had his first meal in a dining car. It was
all decorated with holly and evergreen branches in cele-
bration of the season. Manolin was so absorbed in
everything about him that he could scarcely eat the de-
licious food which a smiling waiter brought him. His
interest but increased later in the evening, when Oliver
demonstrated how he could make up a real bed out of the
very seat on which Manolin had been sitting all after-
noon! He also showed Manolin where to undress, and,
as he tucked the boy in under several blankets, he re-
marked: “I has given you a double amount of covers,
young sir, as you will feel the cold more than the balance
of my passengers. Buenas noches, que duermas bien!”

“Oh, Oliver, do you speak Spanish?”

But the busy porter was gone.

Thrilled by the novel experience of being in bed on a
train, Manolin resolved not to close his eyes. . . .

When the little Porto Rican traveler awoke, he was
amazed to find that it was once more daylight and that
the train was rushing along at as great a rate of speed
as ever. He peeped through the window and saw that
the air was still full of snow. Then he stuck his head
out between the green curtains that protected his berth.
There stood Oliver.

“Good morning!” exclaimed the jolly negro. “You
is the first one in my car to wake up. It’s early yet.
Don’t you want to sleep a while longer before your break-
fast?”

“Breakfast? Oliver, have we been going all night?
We must be far past Indiana!” Manolin’s voice was
tremulous with alarm.

“Don’t you discommode yourself,” advised Oliver.
GOOD WILL 73

“We is only in eastern Ohio now, because we was slowed
up a little last night by the snow. In other words, we is
late. But this train sure have been going the whole
night, crossing mountains, rivers, towns. Where you
think you is, Manolin? Porto Rico? This am not no
Porto Rico. Takes a long time to reach that Indiana.
Most all the rest of this day, / reckon.”

Manolin’s eyes opened wide. They had been going all
night and were not yet in Indiana! What an enormous
distance! He was a little disappointed to see the sky
still a dark and gloomy gray. Didn't the sun ever shine
in the United States? How sad his pretty Aunt Rosa-
linda must be without the daily sunlight of her native is-
land! Then Manolin experienced a queer sensation.
On this very day he was going to meet his relatives—his
Uncle Tom, his Aunt Rosalinda, his cousins, Francis,
William, John, and Mary!

On and on sped the long express train. Whenever it
paused at a station, Manolin watched the merry people
get off and greet those who had come to meet them. The
whole atmosphere was friendly with Christmas cheer.
He wondered who would meet him. What if no one
came? He would be all alone in this great strange
country! . ..

At last, at last, late in the afternoon came Oliver, smil-
ing genially. “We has been in Indiana for a long time
now, and I'm thinking as how the next station will be
yours!”

“Oh, Oliver!” Manolin was on his feet at once,
struggling into his coat, his cap, his gloves, his over-
shoes...

“No hurry, no hurry,” laughed the porter; but the
74 TALES OF BORINQUEN

little “messenger from Porto Rico” was too excited to
hear him.

The train was slowing down. . . .

“You is mighty lucky,” remarked Oliver, who was
helping Manolin with his baggage, “that this train takes
on water here. Otherwise she would not stop at what
am only a junction. Here you is!” The train came
to a full halt, steaming and puffing in the cold winter air.

Manolin followed Oliver, trembling violently now that
the moment was at hand. Then somehow he stepped off
the train and for a harrowing instant he could see no
one because of the snow. He heard Oliver call, “; Adds,
Manolin! A Merry Christmas!” Then he made out a
man and a woman hastening in his direction. He saw
that the lady was tall and graceful and caught a glimpse
of her beautiful rosy face framed in her dark hair and
luxurious furs, as with a melodious voice she cried
“Manolin!” and clasped the little boy in her arms. She
kissed him again and again, exclaiming in Spanish be-
tween laughing and crying: “I would know him any-
where, Tom! He is the image of my brother Angel!”
Then she released Manolin, and he found himself shak-
ing hands with a big handsome man who wore an enor-
mous fur coat and who was no other than his Uncle
Tom!

Manolin, discovering his cheeks to be cold and wet,
thought that he must be crying, until he realized that his
“tears” were melted snowflakes! And of all the things
he had planned to say at this supremely anticipated mo-
ment, he could not remember a single one!

Somehow he found himself between his aunt and uncle
under a large fur robe in a strange vehicle with steel
GOOD WILL 75

runners instead of wheels, enjoying what his Uncle Tom
said was ‘“Manolin’s first sleigh ride.” The horse which
pulled them swiftly and easily through the soft, smooth
snow was decked out in bells which filled the air with
their merry jingle. Manolin was still speechless with
joy. How simpdticos were his Aunt Rosalinda and
Uncle Tom! Meeting them was like meeting people in
a story book. How beautiful the white country was,
with dark woods on every side across the fields, and with
comfortable-looking farm houses here and there, smoke
rising from their every chimney, bespeaking warmth and
cheer within! “Your cousins can hardly wait for you,
Manolin!” his aunt exclaimed, and Manolin’s happiness
was complete, for his one anxious thought at that mo-
ment had been, “Where are they?”

The boy kept trying to appreciate that he had really
arrived, as they flew along over the frozen countryside,
while his pretty aunt, who was even prettier than he had
always pictured her, asked him a thousand questions
about his father, his mother, Porto Rico, his trip, and
so on, until genial Captain Tom laughed and remarked
that Manolin was becoming completely dazed.

When at last they reached their destination, it was twi-
light. As they turned in at the gate and went up a long
avenue of pines, Manolin could see lights gleaming from
every window of the huge farmhouse. With a joyous
sigh he realized that all this good cheer had been prepared
for his welcome. Then, as though the gladsome bells
were a signal for which it had been waiting, the wide
front door burst open of its own accord, and out of it
rushed and tumbled three children in wild pandemonium,
followed more sedately by a young man. . . .
76 TALES OF BORINQUEN

What thereupon took place was like a dream to Mano-
lin, and, because of all his happiness, it seemed no time
at all until his Aunt Rosalinda was kissing her tired
little nephew goodnight and telling him to sleep well, as
tomorrow would be a busy day—the day before Christ-
mas...

When Manolin awoke, someone was knocking on his
door. He opened his eyes and observed that the room
was bright as with sunlight, though he could not see a
thing out of the window for it was entirely covered with
the magic and fantastic decorations of “Jack Frost”!
The moment he stuck his arm out from under the
blankets and felt how freezing cold the air of the room
was, he pulled it back and called, “Come in!” without
getting up to admit whoever might be there.

His two cousins, John, aged fourteen, and William,
aged eleven, immediately rushed in. “Good morning,
Manolin! Get up! Get up! Come quickly into the
other room to dress by the fireplace. After breakfast we
want to show you EVERYTHING!’

Manolin lost no time in accepting this welcome invi-
tation and followed them, shivering with both cold and
delight, into the warm room where a bright fire blazed
on the wide, open hearth.

He ate breakfast with his four cousins, for by this
time Francis, a young man of eighteen, and Mary, a little
girl of eight, had also appeared in the pleasant roomy
kitchen, where his Aunt Rosalinda was directing two
strong, red-cheeked servant girls who were preparing
the food for the Christmas feast. The room was filled
with the delicious odor of spices, fruits, and all kinds of
GOOD WILL 77

good things boiling, baking, and roasting in the big range
in which wood was burned. One of the girls was stuff-
ing an enormous turkey, the biggest Manolin had ever
seen. He would have liked to remain in the cheery
kitchen all morning; but his cousins informed him that
there were many other things to do equally as interesting.
After a real winter breakfast, which consisted of steam-
ing hot chocolate, cereal with thick cream, toast, ham,
eggs, milk, and strawberry jam, all the children put on
their heavy coats and with shouts of gladness rushed into
the cold outdoors, accompanied by Francis, who, even
though a university student, was enjoying his holiday
like a mere boy.

There was so much frost covering all the windows of
the house that Manolin had not been able to see outside.
Now a wondrous sight met his eyes. The sky was a
brilliant blue. The snow had ceased falling, but covered
everything with its deep white mantle, and as the bright
winter sun, which, strange to Manolin, gave practically
no warmth at all, shone down upon it, the boy from the
tropics thought that he had never seen anything so en-
chanting.

Suddenly something struck him with a soft thud on his
chest. He saw snow powdered all over his coat. Mano-
lin had been hit with his first snowball! At once he
learned how to catch up a handful of the snow and mold
it quickly into a ball. A mock battle immediately re-
sulted, to Manolin’s intense delight, during which all the
cousins pelted each other with snowballs.

It would be impossible to narrate at length everything
that Manolin experienced on that first eventful day in
78 TALES OF BORINOUEN

Indiana. After their snowfight his cousins brought out
their sleds, and for an hour or so they all coasted down
a hill nearby.

Next they said that they had to dig some apples for
Christmas. Manolin was greatly mystified. He had al-
ways thought that apples grew on trees. But his cousin
Francis brought a shovel and began to take away the
snow from the side of one of several small mounds that
rose in the backyard. Next with a pickaxe he broke up
the frozen ground underneath. This was hard work,
at which all four of the boys assisted. Manolin found
that he was quite warm, when he had finished his turn.
Finally they uncovered some straw. Francis carefully
pulled this out in handfuls, and there at last Manolin
caught the gleam of shining red apples, fresh and de-
licious beneath the frozen earth!

“This is the way we store apples for the winter to
keep them from freezing,” his cousin explained, as he
handed each one a juicy apple while he put others in a
large basket. Manolin did not quite understand it. He
resolved to ask his uncle, who came up just then, about
it. But this he quite forgot to do, when his Uncle
Tom said: “Come, all of you! We must go into the
woods to cut the Christmas tree!”

This invitation was greeted by renewed shouting, and
they all rushed pellmell to the big red barn to hitch the
horses to the wooden sledge which was to carry them
into the woods. As they were ready to leave, Aunt Rosa-
linda came out of the house with a large plateful of hot
cookies, just from the oven, saying that they should have
something to eat before they started. Manolin thought
that he had never tasted anything so delicious as those
GOOD WILL 79

fresh Christmas cakes, eaten in the frosty air, which, he
discovered, had given him a tremendous appetite.

When they reached the woods, Manolin believed that
at last he was in fairyland! The ground was buried in
snow ; the low bushes were decorated with magical white

 

 

The fairyland of the winter woods.

draperies. Dark green pines were festooned with its
pure loveliness; and far above, the black branches and
twigs of the trees were outlined with it, where they were
limned lacily against the blue heavens.

The boys selected a tall, straight fir to be their Christ-
mas tree. While Uncle Tom chopped it down, the
cousins showed Manolin some tracks in the snow which
they said had been made by rabbits. Their dog, Joe,
nearly went wild as he sniffed at those tracks and fol-
lowed them off. He stood barking a long time beside a
fallen log, and William assured Manolin that there were
surely rabbits hiding in that hollow tree trunk. “Some
80 TALES OF BORINQUEN

day, when we are not so busy, we will come hunting,” he
promised.

Now the Christmas tree was cut, and as the boys
helped load it on to the sledge, they discovered a tiny
abandoned bird’s nest, like a delicate cup of grass among
the green, aromatic branches. “The little bird who built
this is far away in the sunny South,” they said, and as
they spoke Manolin had a momentary vision of his home
in the West Indies.

That afternoon the children trimmed their tree from
a great boxful of sparkling ornaments and tinsel which
Manolin’s Aunt Rosalinda had saved from year to year.
Every moment the hilarity was rising, as Christmas drew
nearer and nearer. All were thinking about the gifts
of the morrow, and Mary was wondering how that fat
old Christmas saint, Santa Claus, would ever get down
the chimney with his bulging sack of toys.

Finally the long, busy day was over, and evening had
fallen clear, cold, and starry. After supper the entire
family gathered round the open fireplace, into which
Uncle Tom had put a huge yule log. In one corner of
the room stood the tall tree, glittering from top to bot-
tom. Under it were piled heaps of interesting packages,
among them those gifts which Manolin had brought all
the way from Porto Rico! The four children could
scarcely wait till morning to open their presents and prom-
ised each other again and again that they would arise at
five o'clock at the latest!

But now, while they all sat before the crackling, scarlet
fire whence blue flames escaped in ragged shapes up the
chimney, tired after their strenuous day, Manolin began
to think of his parents far away in Porto Rico. This
GOOD WILL 81

was Noche Buena. First they would all go to the
brightly lighted church to see the nacimiento and to hear
the Misa de Gallo. Then, after this midnight mass,
would break forth the joyous aguinaldos, to the tunes
of which they would go homeward through the warm,
starlit night, where a marvelous feast would be awaiting
them. He thought of how his parents would be missing
him, how he had never been away from them before, and
suddenly a wave of uncontrollable homesickness swept
over him. Hot tears rose in his eyes, though he made a
valiant effort not to cry. His relatives were wonderful;
but, oh, if only his dear parents could be here too; if
his beloved Porto Rico were not so far, so very far away!
The young “messenger” was experiencing some trying
moments !

His Uncle Tom must have sensed what Manolin was
feeling, for all at once he rose, crossed the room, and
began to turn the dials of his powerful radio. Then a
wondrous thing occurred. Suddenly the room was filled
with glorious music from a great pipe organ. Soon hun-
dreds of voices joined in, singing the mighty Christmas
anthem. Manolin had never in his life heard anything
like it. When the song was finished, a voice announced
that it was broadcast from a cathedral in New York
City!

Then Manolin’s uncle changed the position of the
magic dials. There was far-off Boston, where a sym-
phony orchestra was playing Christmas music. .
Another twist brought Palm Beach, Florida. They heard
one act of a poetic Christmas play. . . . Chicago came
next. Famous opera stars were singing Christmas carols
for the benefit of the poor of that teeming city... . .
82 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Next it was a small town in the State of Georgia, and
soft negro voices were crooning old-time Christmas melo-
dies. '. =. « Distant ‘California was heard, and, as out
there on the Pacific coast it was still very early evening,
they heard the voices of small children raised in Christ-

mas song... . From St. Louis,” a college glee club
filled the atmosphere of all the land with hilarious Christ-
mas cheer. . . . Montreal, Canada, chimed in, where a

group of carolers sang old-time Christmas ballads. . . .
New Orleans, where a theater was broadcasting a noble
Christmas drama. .

More carols, more anthems, more songs, more laughter
even, as the very radio announcers themselves became
jubilant with Christmas spirit. . . . The whole vast na-
tion was throbbingly awake, alive, on that enchanted
night. Across thousands and thousands of miles, from
large cities and from small hamlets, through the clear,
cold air, mounting to the vast, scintillating heavens, the
voice of Christmas cheer rose and surged in a great har-
monious wave over the entire land. . . . Manolin lis-
tened absolutely spellbound. The United States in those
vivid hours took on a meaning he had never realized be-
fore. Union! That was it—union of voices, of hearts,
of spirit, in one grand, sublime outpouring of Christmas
joy! This was the magnificent nation to which his
father had vowed eternal allegiance on Christmas Day
twenty-five years ago!

Suddenly Manolin remembered that he was the “mes-
senger of good will” from Porto Rico. What could he
do to express the sentiments of his country, to raise her
voicé among all the wondrous Christmas celebration that
seemed to be sweeping the very earth this night? He had
GOOD WILL 83

been so entranced with his uncle’s radio that he had not
noticed the repressed excitement of his cousins. They had
had their eyes fixed on the clock for at least an hour, and
at last it struck—ten, long, deep strokes. That would be
twelve in Porto Rico. Silence for a tense moment. . . .
“Now,” breathed Aunt Rosalinda.

Uncle Tom manipulated the radio dials once more, and
suddenly that room, remote on the snow-covered Indiana
farm, was filled with a sound dear and familiar to the
heart of the little homesick Porto Rican lad. For, as
clear as though it had been right beside him, he heard
a Porto Rican orchestra—maracas, giiicharos, panderetas,
and all the rest! There could be no mistake. And then,
as Manolin jumped to his feet, staring around in be-
wilderment, the familiar strains of the most popular
aguinaldo of all fell upon his ear:

“Si me dan pasteles,
Dénmelos calientes. . . .”

and, unable to restrain his joy for another moment, he
began singing in unison with those voices nearly three
thousand miles away! And then, to his inestimable de-
light, everyone in the room sang with him, for Rosalinda
had taught her children all the old songs of her ever-
beloved native island!

On and on they sang, one after another of the familiar
airs—‘‘Venid, Pastores,” ‘Noche de Paz,” “El Nifio
Jesus,” “Los Tres Reyes,” “Madre, El Nifio se ha Per-
dido,”” ‘Los Reyes de Oriente.” . ....- The house rang
with their joyfulness. When at last the music ceased,
they heard a voice speaking in English, and unbelievable
84 TALES OF BORINQUEN

 

They went into the woods to cut a Christmas tree.

as it may seem, it was the voice of Manolin’s own father,
Don Angel! He had arranged by mail that his sister
and all her family should be listening and, as a special
privilege, he had secured permission to speak over the
radio from the San Juan broadcasting station, WKAQ.

He said: “Triends in the great United States, this is
Porto Rico greeting you on this glorious Christmas Eve.
From our tropical island, far-off in the azure Caribbean
Sea, we wish you, our fellow-citizens, all the joy and
prosperity possible during the coming year!” Then he
continued: “And if, as I hope, my dear sister Rosa-
linda, my brother Tom, my niece, my nephews, and my
own son, Manolin, are listening to me in their Indiana
home, I and everyone who knows them in Porto Rico,
GOOD WILL 85

wish them Felices Pascuas y un Préspero Aiio Nuevo.”

As Don Angel's voice ceased, they all sat in reverent
silence for a moment, too moved at this marvelous mani-
festation of the unbreakable ties of good will and loyalty
which bind Porto Rico and the United States together, to
trust their voices in speech.

Then Manolin remembered something—the big pack-
age with which his father had entrusted him when he
left Porto Rico, and which was to be presented without
fail to Rosalinda on this night.

Manolin brought it, and his aunt unwrapped its many
coverings, while every one crowded around her in breath-
less curiosity and anticipation. Finally she had reached
the last wrapping... . "She tore it off... . She
gasped. . -.

For what her brother had sent her was an exquisite
oil-painting of his picturesque country home in Porto
Rico, and, as Aunt Rosalinda explained: “It is my
father’s and my mother’s house! For my dear Angel
has built his own home exactly like theirs, and has sent
it these thousands of miles that it might grace our—"

She did not finish, but, with a smile, crossed the room
and threw wide the doors of the dining-room. And
there on the long table was spread the feast of the Noche
Buena—a whole roast pig, a huge dish of arroz con pollo,
pasteles—sent by Manolin’s mother all the way from
Aibonito, dulces and cakes of every description, in fact
all the good things the Porto Rican cousin would have
enjoyed had he been in his own homeland! Tall candles
gleamed on the table, which was decorated with bright
evergreens and holly.

Manolin took one long unbelieving look. Overcome
86 TALES OF BORINQUEN

with happiness, and remembering that he was a carrier
of good will from Porto Rico on this momentous oc-
casion, he turned to his Aunt Rosalinda and said with
shining eyes: “Oh, tia Rosalinda, there is no difference,
is there? The United States is Porto Rico; Porto Rico
is the United States; for the same brotherly love and
good cheer draw both of them together on this wonderful
Christmas Eve!”

POINSETTIAS
(SONNET)

Poinsettias had flamed for me once more.

That was an ecstasy I had not sought—

A priceless gift not labored for, nor bought
With gold. For I had learned from holy lore
That Deity, one fateful day of yore,

Took earthly form in burning bush and wrought
A miracle. But I had never thought

That God might lurk so close beside my door,
Might challenge me, with matchless crimson lyre,
To answer Him in fitting song. All words
Were vain: the note of that enchanted fire
Eluded me, till T felt wild desire

To fall upon its hundred blazing swords

And with their wondrous secret pierced, expire.
THE STONE DOG

Many are the strange tales, such as this, that one may
hear from old folks of wide experience. . . .

There once lived an aged Porto Rican fisherman named
Ruperto. His thatched hut was located between two
rocks on a point of land in Cangrejos directly opposite
the ancient fort of San Geronimo. Today a palatial
home occupies the very spot. But Ruperto lived so long
ago that his humble dwelling was the only one in sight
on the bare, wind-swept promontory. Nor was there a
single bohio or hut among the sighing, whispering palms
of the endless coconut grove beyond.

Ruperto had been tall and strong in his youth. But
now he was stooped beneath the weight of the many
years he had lived. His black hair had become thin and
gray. Solitary he was, without wife or child. One
faithful companion remained by his side. This was a
huge brown dog.

On a stormy day Ruperto had been carried off his feet
by a wave which rolled unexpectedly over the rocks.
Just as he was about to drown, an enormous dog mi-
raculously appeared and saved him. This dog hence-
forth remained with Ruperto, who named him Leon, for
he justly regarded the animal as superior to other dogs.
The lonely fisherman soon fell into the habit of speaking
to Leon as though he were a human friend.

87
88 TALES OF BORINQUEN

The soldier on watch in the nearby fort often observed
Ruperto and Leén. He could see that the dog was not
only the old fisherman’s constant companion, but his as-
sistant as well. In the morning Ruperto cast his net into
the shallow water of the blue lagoon. At the close of
day Leon swam out, caught hold of one end of the net,
and helped his master pull in the day’s catch.

“Gracias, mi querido Leon,” said Ruperto solemnly.
“Thank you, my dear Leon.”

The dog, dripping wet on reaching the sandy shore,
shook himself and gave a gladsome bark in reply, as
much as to say, “That was nothing, dear master. I am
overjoyed to be of assistance to you.”

Leon was so big and heavy that Ruperto’s old arms
could not row his small boat easily when the dog was in
it, especially if the boat was full of fish. Hence on
those calm days when the fisherman went to sea, he could
not take his pet with him. The guard at San Geronimo
always noticed Leon keeping faithful watch. The dog
sat on one of the coral rocks of the reef which almost
connected the fort with the neighboring point of land
where Ruperto lived.

“That dog is a more patient sentinel than any soldier,”
often remarked the guard.

With what joy Ledn welcomed the safe return of his
master! Several times he swam out to meet him. But
Ruperto feared that his dog might be caught and eaten
by a shark or a barracuda.

“No, no, amigo mio,” he finally said one day. “Wait
for me in safety on the rocks. There is great danger
for you in the ocean, and what would I do without my
friend?”
THE STONE DOG 89

Ledn seemed to understand these words, for he swam
out to sea no more.

Ruperto kept his fish alive in a pool he had made
among the rocks. When he had a sufficient number, he
loaded them into his boat. Then he rowed slowly across
the lagoon. Ledén swam behind. There was no man-
made causeway dividing the water in those times. Ru-
perto guided his boat straight towards the San Antonio
Bridge.

The old fisherman thought of how, years and years
before, he had liked to hear his grandfather tell the story
of the battle fought here in 1598. Under the leadership
of a heroic captain named Bernabé de Serralta, this
bridge had been successfully defended against the at-
tacks of the English. The fame of Bernabé de Serralta
was a tradition even in Ruperto’s time. Already the
ancient bridge had become a historic landmark.

When they reached the other shore, Leon climbed out
of the water.

“Adiés, my friend,” said Ruperto. “Until we meet!”
Then he rowed on, under the wooden bridge, and into
the San Juan Bay beyond. Giving several loud barks
of farewell, Le6n set out contentedly along the road lead-
ing to the city.

About an hour later, when Ruperto had reached the
Marina, there was his intelligent dog running excitedly
up and down the beach, waiting for him. Thus they
always separated and met, as it was too far for Leon
to swim all the way!

Ruperto loaded his fresh fish into a large flat basket.
He lifted it with difficulty on to his head—with difficulty,
because his once powerful arms were shaky and weak.
90 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Then he limped up through the San Justo gate into the
walled city of San Juan. Here in the narrow streets
he cried:

“;Pescado! ;Pescado! Fish! Fish! Fresh fish for
everyone today!”

 

 

Looking across the reef toward Fort San Gerénimo.

People looked out of their windows. They saw a fa-
miliar sight—old Ruperto bearing his heavy burden of
fish which he had worked long and hard to catch; faith-
ful Ledn stalking at his master’s side.

“Let us hope that the good city folk are hungry for
fish today, Leén, my friend,” remarked Ruperto.

When the people came out to buy, Ruperto received
only about one cent apiece for his fish. Money was
scarce in those days; fish were plentiful. Hence the
prices were very, very low.

When Ruperto had sold all his week’s supply of fish,
THE STONE DOG 91

he had little more than two pesos. In the old market-
place near Fort San Cristobal he purchased a few simple
supplies—some rice, some tobacco, a candle. He bought
a large ox bone for Ledn—the dog’s weekly reward for
service.

Then came Ledn’s special treat—the trip home in the
empty boat. The dog sat upright in the bow, like some
graven figure-head of days of old.

When they reached Cangrejos after the long, weari-
some day, the red sun was already setting behind the far
blue hills of Boriquén. Soon the blazing stars appeared
in the velvet-black tropical heavens.

“Goodnight, amigo mio; until the morrow,” said old
Ruperto gravely.

Leén whined softly and rubbed his head against his
master’s knees. This was his way of saying goodnight.

The old man lay down in his hammock. Ledn
stretched himself across the doorway. All through the
night there came the sound of waves breaking on the
rocks outside. Thus the two friends slept until the sun
came up round and golden out of the sea. Then began
once again the casting of nets to catch more fish to take
to San Juan.

So lived the lonely fisherman with his dog for several
years in complete contentment.

One morning the turquoise-blue Atlantic stretched
away to the horizon as tranquil as a pond. Old Ruperto,
shading his eyes against the bright morning sun, decided
that this would be a good day for chillo fishing.

Chillos colorados are among the most delectable of
tropical sea-fish. They never come into shallow waters
and are caught only at considerable depths. When they
92 TALES OF BORINQUEN

are brought out of the sea, their big round eyes become
distended, because the air pressure is far less than the
water pressure under which they live.

For these dainty squirrel-fish Ruperto received three
times as much money as he did for the more common
kinds. “I may even be able to buy us a treat of Spanish
sausage and wine!” he told Leén. “So, farewell, my
friend, until evening!”

‘But when Ruperto climbed into his little boat, Leon
whined and ran up and down in evident anxiety. It was
unusual for him to act that way. Ruperto climbed out
and patted and soothed him. But as soon as he was in
the boat once more, Ledn again began to act strangely.
He even swam after his master as far as the opening in
the rocks. He barked sharply as though to entreat Ru-
perto, “Do not go! Oh, please, do not go, dear master!”

When Ruperto had rowed through the breakers, which
were only lazy ripples on this calm day, Leon jumped to
his customary post on the brown rocks. He barked and
barked as long as Ruperto could hear him.

“What ails the dog?” thought the old man. He
glanced at the blue sky somewhat fearfully. It was
cloudless. Reassured, he smiled and continued to row
farther away from land, that he might reach the deep
waters where the chillos hide.

‘Soon Ruperto had quite lost sight of the palm-fringed
shore. He could see only the great blue bulk of El
Yunque—always the landmark for mariners.

Uncanny at times is the intuition of dogs, far exceed-
ing that of over-confident man. . . .

By noontime, the morning’s tranquillity was gone.
The blue sky was overcast with ragged, leaden clouds.
THE STONE DOG 93

A sudden breeze swept in from the sea, rudely disturbing
the calmness of the waters. The guard at San Geronimo
glanced apprehensively at the sky. He did not like
the color of it. The gusty wind, growing stronger every
moment, had an ominous sound. Then his worried gaze
chanced to fall on the coral rocks. There sat the fisher-
man’s dog looking steadily out across the tumbling sea!
He sat so still that he might have been molded from the
rock itself. :

The sentry’s heart jumped. The waiting dog meant
that the old master was at sea! Even before he had
time to realize the full portent of this, a black cloud
blotted out the sun; the sound of the wind increased to a
roar; a vast wave rolled in from the ocean; and the ter-
rible storm broke! . . .

For hours the tempest continued, increasing to the
fury of a hurricane. Throughout the dark afternoon
the guard tried in vain to see whether that pathetic form
was still keeping watch on the wave-lashed rocks. Night
came on—long, fearsome hours filled with the clamor of
wind and sea.

But when morning dawned and the storm had sub-
sided, the astounded sentry made out through the white
foam which broke mountainously over the brown rocks,
a firm and unmoved figure. . . .

All day it remained there, upright, motionless, with
lifted head turned out toward the tossing sea.

And the next day . . . and the next . . . and the day
alter. . ...

Then the sentry at San Gerénimo was relieved from
duty. He whispered fearfully to the guard who had
come to take his place, something about a phantom dog
94 TALES OF BORINQUEN

that had turned to stone. And the new sentry begged
him not to mention such a thing, as it was lonely work
in those days to keep watch at San Gerénimo. But he
could not help seeing, every time he looked out through
the embrasures of the heavy parapets, the Stone Dog!
And to this very day, as you pass over the causeway
towards the Condado, you may look across the blue
lagoon to the reef which half-closes its outlet to the
Atlantic. And there, staring ever out to sea, is an up-
right stone—the life-like shape of a huge brown dog!

 

 

The Stone Dog as seen from the Condado Causeway.

I like to think it is Leon who, through storm and calm,
by day and night, and during weeks, months, years, and
centuries, awaits the return of old Ruperto who never
comes! I like to gaze at the Stone Dog, for to me it
is a symbol of one of the most touching devotions in all
the world—the steadfast faithfulness of a dog to his
master.
SPANISH AIRS

It was within an unknown street,

Where low-set stars made all the light

And tapestries of fragrance sweet,
(Strange flower perfumes undefined)

Which hung unseen all through the night,
Were shaken gently by the wind,

(La Paloma)

(El Toreador)

(La Jota)

That once a madcap violin
Played wanton Spanish airs!

er ie ok nd

Swiftly came a Seforita
Pirouetting from a shadow,
Castanets I heard a-clicking

In a dance called La Gitana. . ..

Soft stole a lover

Clad in red and silver,

Knelt before the dancer,
Offering quaint homage. . . .

Dimly the shadows then

Changed into archways old,

All round a courtyard where
Danced these two ghosts of Spain.

Med Loki delice nk

And this was many years ago;
But oh, to find Romance long fled,

95
96

TALES OF BORINQUEN

To learn if it were dreams or no!
Exists the place so lit by stars
Where shadows through the courtyards spread
And two lithe ghosts of Spain trip bars
When there a madcap violin
Plays wanton Spanish airs?

YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME GIFTS
(SONNET)

But for your words, how had I known that stars
Entice the eye with slender paths of light

Across the Carib sea; that creaking spars

And swishing waves speak in the night

And tell weird salty tales; that trade-winds croon
And whisper secrets of black sails they've borne,
While waggish phantom-pirates hoist the moon ;
That lofty Saba, wreathed in mists of morn,

Is green-limned setting for a pageant rare

When quaint folk, at three blasts of sailor’s horn,
Descend its steep and winding rock-hewn stair. . . .
Without these gifts I had remained forlorn—
For few may live their dreams, but they who live
And sing them forth, a priceless treasure give.
THE PROMISE

Don José, the renowned Porto Rican painter, sat be-
fore his easel, which supported a blank square of canvas.
Idle were the delicate hands which already had skillfully
produced many splendid paintings. For, like all those
who create, Don José was ever humble and, at times, dis-
satisfied. Exquisite as were the works he had finished,
his relentlessly critical eyes were always discovering im-
perfections—those nameless faults, invisible to the lay-
man, which ever urge the genius to higher effort, hopeful
of molding the materials of his art into reproductions of
those ethereal dreams which haunt his inner soul.

For the twentieth time the painter’s sweet sister, Dona
Lucia, peeped into her brother’s small studio. Seeing
him still unoccupied, still immersed in thought, she sighed
softly and stole away. What was the matter with José,
usually so cheerful, so active? What was the meaning
of that expression of sadness which clouded his gentle
face? Dofia Lucia was worried and could not busy
herself with the countless small household tasks which
filled her days. She wished Maria Loreto, who was so
much more practical than she, would come back. Maria
Loreto would not hesitate for an instant to go into the
studio and ask her famous brother what was the matter,
if he were hungry, ill, tired, sad. Dofia Lucia, with
that deep respect amounting almost to timidity which she
felt towards his art, would never dare thus to disturb
his dreams.

97
98 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“At this moment,” she tried to console herself, “he is
probably in the midst of a new inspiration, preparing to
paint a more beautiful picture than ever before.” But
even as she had the thought, she sensed that she was
mistaken, for she well knew the radiant expression which
transformed the face of José when he was inspired.
Even Maria Loreto dared not address him then, for
practical as she was, she, too, had the most profound re-
spect for her brother’s art. So Dofia Lucia realized,
though she feared to admit it even to herself, that some-
thing was exceedingly wrong with José this sunny morn-
ing. A feeling of pain tightened her throat as she tried
to imagine what ailed her brother, on whom depended the
livelihood, the interests, the happiness, the very life of
her and her sister.

It was well for Dofia Lucia that she could not fathom
his thoughts, for Don José was plunged into one of those
abysses of despair, following high spiritual excitement,
which from time to time beset true geniuses. Not so
much as the faintest gleam of an idea gave him comfort
on this day. His thoughts were cold as old ashes. He
felt empty—as useless as a thick wine bottle from which
the last drop of sparkling elixir has been poured. His
hands were leaden, clumsy. Instead of occupying him-
self with some trivial task to distract his mind, instead
of seeking out his affectionate friends, he had allowed
his gloomy thoughts to have their way, with the result
that they had taken a very disturbing course.

Don José was besieged by dangerous doubts as to the
wisdom of his past decisions. He wondered if his talent
had not gone out like a burned-down candle. Had he
placed too much faith in his own ability? Had he made
THE PROMISE 99

a mistake to remain within the confining limits of his tiny
native island? For almost the first time he speculated
bitterly as to whether his refusal of the invitation to go
to the Court of Spain had been wrong, or whether he
had committed an error against his art in declining the
patronage of the wealthy Englishman, which would have
meant separation from his devoted sisters and his be-
loved Porto Rico. Perhaps he would never find in so
very small an island the stimulus he needed to produce
the masterpiece of which he dreamed! He had desired
so strongly to live and labor all his life in behalf of his
own land, his own people, upheld by a belief that he could
immortalize them through his God-given art; but, for
days now, his eyes, his soul had been weary.

Was it, then, that he needed broader fields, keener
competition with the great artists of the world to bring
out that which was in him? He was tortured by these
doubts. Was there no inspiration for him in Porto Rico,
or were her people too obscured, too limited in experience
to furnish him the great picture of Life that he longed
to paint? Maybe this was true, maybe only in the cos-
mopolitan centers of art, learning, and sophistication,
would he find those truths, that secret of human life,
which he wished to perpetuate on canvas.

For the first time Don José coldly criticized his color-
ful, tropical homeland, which he had always loved with
the staunch fidelity of a son. “Too small, too provincial,
too poor, too isolated!” whispered the evil spirit which
haunted him.

“But beautiful!” his faithful soul tried to answer, and
failed.

“Never now,” thought the unhappy painter, “will the
100 TALES OF BORINQUEN

good fortune I refused, return. The greatest oppor-
tunity has passed me by.” And his hands felt heavier
and colder than ever, while his idle brushes and his dry
paint-encrusted palette seemed to mock him.

A quick laugh, a shrill, excited voice sounding through
the little house, announced the return of Donia Maria
Loreto.

“What a fine day!” she cried. “Where is Pepito?”
Thus she always dared to call her brother, while timid
Dona Lucia never departed from a dignified “José.”

Dona Lucia’s reply was inaudible, but a moment later
Dona Maria Loreto briskly opened the studio door. Her
discerning eyes instantly noted her brother’s despondency.
After a swift glance at him and at the untouched canvas,
she entered the room and embraced his drooping shoul-
ders.  “:Oué hay, Pepito? You are not busy, 1 see
Please come into the sala. 1 have something most un-
usual to tell you and Lucia.”

Dofia Lucia, listening outside, marveled at her sister’s
temerity.

Don José rose dully and followed Dofia Maria Loreto.

“What do you think I encountered in the street? The
most amazing, beautiful, and pitiful thing!”

“What was it, Maria?” asked Dofla Lucia smiling.
Thus she often had to steady the words of her high-
spirited sister.

“Just listen, mi palomita,” laughed Dofia Maria, en-
joying the suspense she had created. “It is a long story,
as the onlookers variously told it. I shall give only the
outline.” And this is what she related, while glancing
shrewdly at her brother from time to time.

“First you must imagine a tiny thatched bohio in the
THE PROMISE 101

hills beyond Rio Piedras. Over this hut a large laurel
tree spreads its beautiful protective branches. The tiny
garden in front is radiant with bright-leaved plants
gathered wild from the mountain-sides and tenderly nur-
tured, because humble as this habitation is, it is none the
less a home, full of love and tenderness.”

Maria Loreto observed the cloud lifting from her
brother’s face, as she cleverly described her setting with
well-chosen words. For, though she and her sister were
unschooled, both could talk eloquently. Their rather
remarkable culture was the result of night after night of
fascinated listening to the conversations of their gifted
brother and his friends—poets, writers, journalists, ar-
tists, musicians—in fact all the learned men of the day,
who flocked to their humble house on San Sebastian
street, seeking the companionship of the one destined
to be the greatest of them all.

“In this pretty hut,” continued Dofia Maria Loreto,
“you must picture an old woman, bent by years of labor
in the fields, but with a wrinkled face illumined by a
deep religious faith and by love for her one daughter,
Francisca. And then you must visualize Francisca,
about eighteen years old, pale, spiritual, with the trans-
lucent beauty of a white flower of the night, her face
innocent, trusting as that of a child. For every com-
fort, for every interest, for every joy in life she depends
entirely upon her adoring mother, because lovely Fran-
cisca is blind.”

At this point, gentle Dona Lucia uttered a stifled cry,
while Don José, with an inarticulate exclamation, rose
swiftly and began pacing the floor.

Dofia Maria Loreto observed her brother with pleased
102 TALES OF BORINQUEN

satisfaction. Gone now was that terrible melancholy ex-
pression which had secretly caused her intense alarm.
Her little narrative had succeeded in breaking the spell
of his strange lethargy. The artist in him was already
awakened.

“Continue, Maria Loreto,” said Don José.

“These two, the patient old woman and the brave
young daughter, are happy together, each one living only
for the other. ‘While the mother is away earning their
humble livelihood in the tobacco fields, her daughter sits
in the low doorway, deftly weaving simple baskets from
palm fiber, singing a little melody of which she improvises
the pretty couplets, waiting eagerly for the return of her
beloved companion.”

Dofia Maria Loreto paused. Then her voice took on
a different note. “Now, having imagined these two
simple souls together, you must see a terrible illness
stealthily entering their happy home to separate them, to
take one of them away forever.”

“The blind girl,” breathed Dofia Lucia.

“Even worse; the mother!” exclaimed Dofia Maria
Loreto, and continued: “Imagine the helpless terror of
that poor young daughter, unable to see, unable to be
of assistance, feeling that at any moment her one hope of
existence, of happiness, may be taken from her forever!
Kindly neighbors come to do what they can. Some one
goes to town for a doctor. But nothing can bring com-
fort to the poor soul of Francisca, stricken with the ter-
ror of having henceforth to bear her darkness all alone.
The old mother herself tries to comfort her child with
repetitions of the divine faith which has sustained her all
THE PROMISE 103

through a difficult life. But even her words falter, as
realization that she will be leaving her helpless child
alone assails her, and she cries out to the saints that she
may be spared. But she grows steadily worse.

“Then one chill, starry night, the blind girl, driven by
her despair, stumbles out of the hut on to the quiet hill-
side. She has never been in a church in her life. She
knows only the humble teachings of her parent. There
in the night, in the deeper darkness which shrouds her
own life, she kneels and beseeches Heaven to spare her
mother. Then the poor thing, believing that for so great
a gift Heaven would surely expect some recompense,
makes in her anguish a strange, unnecessary promise—
unnecessary, for, if the Lord is disposed to grant her
request, He will do so without exacting more than the
sincerity of her faith. But she does not realize this, and
so she promises that if her mother lives, she will make
a pilgrimage to the Cathedral of San Juan on her knees,
praying all the way—"

“and her mother recovered, and you saw her in
the street, making the pilgrimage on her knees!” cried
José, in such a fever of excitement that his sisters re-
garded him in amazement.

“Yes,” replied Donia Maria Loreto, “I have just seen
her.”

“Come!” cried her brother, half beside himself.
“Come! Take me to her at once, for I must look upon
the face of one who has had so great a faith amidst the
almost unbearable sorrows, burdens, and hardships of
her life!” and he started for the door. -

The two sisters made haste to accompany Don José,
104 TALES OF BORINQUEN

secretly exulting to have seen the beginning of that glow-
ing change in his features, of that light on his face which
they both knew and understood so well.

Down the Cruz Street hill they went to San Francisco
Street. There, far at the end, they saw a great crowd
of people slowly approaching, so slowly that they seemed
scarcely to move at all.

“So must have appeared the reverent throngs that fol-
lowed the course of our Lord,” murmured Dona Lucia.

Don José hastened on as in a trance and shortly came
up to the crowd. Leading it was a strange figure, which
arrested him with wonder, for never had he looked upon
such a countenance as the one before him. :

“Step back!” cried someone in the mob. “No one
must stand before her.”

“Let him alone,” chided another. “Do you not see
that it is Don José? Something great will come of
this!”

The artist heard neither of them, for he was gazing
with intentness upon the blind girl, Francisca. She was
clad in a coarse blue garment, frayed at the bottom and
streaked with the dust of the long, long journey she had
made on her knees. But her face! It was her face, in-
finitely weary, paler than fading camellias, upon which
Don José centered his gaze. It was raised trustingly
towards the blue sky, while the large black sightless eyes
seemed to burn as with an inner fire, and the pallid lips
moved ceaselessly with scarcely audible prayers. The
beautiful, tangled black hair which spread over her
shoulders accentuated the spiritual purity of her uplifted
face. It was evident that the blind girl was physically
exhausted, and that only the intensity of her steadfast
THE PROMISE 105

faith sustained her. Don José continued to study that
inspired countenance, himself proceeding slowly back-
wards, seemingly unconscious of his movements.

 

 

Cruz Street hill today.

His two sisters, who had joined the silent crowd fol-
lowing the pilgrim, did not remove their eyes from their
brother. Each of them was intent on trying to fathom
the thoughts, the inspiration, which such a spectacle pro-
duced in the mind of a genius.

Finally José became aware that by the side of the blind
girl limped an aged woman, drooping with weariness,
her lined face yearning with tender love, as she directed
her child’s way and held a small palm leaf over her head
in a tender gesture of protection. Francisca’s mother
for whose sake the promise and the pilgrimage were
made!

At last the artist shifted his gaze to the multitude closely
following these two. Swiftly his eyes ranged over the
faces banked solidly behind them, reading all their various
106 TALES OF BORINQUEN

expressions—wonder, reverence, fear, incomprehension,
doubt, ridicule, mockery, understanding, exaltation, joy
—a great tapestry of human emotions serving as back-
ground for the two humble souls!

On towards the Cathedral advanced the strange pro-
cession, slowly, slowly beneath the burning sun. Sud-
denly Don José turned and hastened homewards. Dona
Lucia and Dofia Maria Loreto slipped out of the ever-
increasing throng, which was now beginning to surge
and murmur as the goal of Francisca’s pilgrimage drew
nigh, the doubters wagering as to whether she would
reach it before sinking from exhaustion, the believers re-
joicing that the completion of such a saintly act was to
take place before their fortunate eyes.

The sisters, though deeply impressed with what they
had seen, were more eager to observe its effect upon their
brother. When they reached home, they went straight
to his studio. To their almost overwhelming joy they
found José at his easel, already at work, sketching in
his figures with that precision and marvelous ability to
draw which he possessed. For some time they watched
him while he seemed unaware of their presence. At last
Doiia Lucia started to move quietly away when, to her
surprise, Dofla Maria Loreto dared to break the enchanted
silence with a question:

“Please tell us,” she begged, “what it meant to you,
brother.”

Don José turned, showing no impatience at her inter-
ruption. Both of the women realized that they had
never seen him look so content, so joyous. “It meant,
my sisters, that I have discovered that the truths of life
are to be found in my native land as well as elsewhere.
THE PROMISE 107

This morning I strongly doubted it; but now I know it!”

“And what truth did you find in that poor blind girl?”
asked Dofia Lucia timidly.

“I saw mingled in her face all the human sorrows, suf-
ferings, and hardships made bearable by an unquestion-
ing faith as bright and strong as the midday sun. And
that is Life, my dear sis-
ters, for were it not for the
persistence of its faith, hu-
manity had long ere this
destroyed itself through its
despair! So I shall paint
Francisca as we saw her
this afternoon—the em-
bodiment of the triumph of
faith over despair. Beside
her shall stand her aged
mother, personification of
that vast sustaining and
guiding love which is but
the same faith in another
form. And behind these
two superb figures, as a
background, I shall paint,
diffused, vague, in an almost liquid intermingling, that sea
of faces on which appeared the conflict of all the human
emotions that always accompany such pious manifesta-
tions.” And Don José turned eagerly to his canvas.

“It will be the most beautiful picture he has ever
made,” whispered Dofia Lucia with shining eyes.

“Because it will be the truest,” replied Dofia Maria
Loreto, adding, “The most beautiful is always the truest.”

 

   

 

San Juan’s ancient cathedral
108 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“My deepest regret is that, when this painting is
finished, José will sell it, as he has most of his others,
in order that such forlorn creatures as we may live.”

“That is true,” agreed Dona Maria Loreto. “He will
have no difficulty in selling his picture, which I predict
will be a masterpiece. But,” she added smiling suddenly,
“we must feel no sadness at losing it, for remember we
shall have seen it, and the memory of it will always be
ours. Then it will go out into the world, Lucia; others
will see it, and the memory will be theirs likewise. Thus
it will spread its message of truth and beauty in ever-
widening circles, the extent of which we cannot begin to
imagine. We must have no regrets. Listen to José;
his spirit, which for some reason reached a terrible depth
this morning, is now scaling heights of joy of which we
lesser beings do not even dream!”

And the two sisters sat in silent happiness, listening
to Don José sing as he worked, until the blue twilight
fell and the Cathedral bells chimed out the Angelus.
THE HARMONICA

Just on the outskirts of the mountain town of Naran-

jito lived Fortufio. He had no playthings except the
few crude ones he had been able to devise for himself;
but he was rich in friends. All day long he played with
other boys and girls on the green hillsides. He was
especially fortunate, for he had a remarkable accomplish-
ment which won him much admiration.
. Fortufio was able to imitate the birds. He chirped
like the pert little pitirres and whistled like the black-
birds. Although a coqui is a tiny toad, its call is as
sweet as that of a bird; and when Fortufio hid behind a
bush and imitated a coqui, there was no telling whether
he was really one of them or not! But what his friends
liked best was to hear Fortufio whistle like a ruiseior,
the melodious nightingale of Porto Rico.

Naturally a boy of such musical talents had a pleasant
disposition. Most of the time, when Fortufio was not
whistling, he was singing, and his sunny cheerfulness
did much to brighten his and his friends’ otherwise
rather dreary lives.

One of Fortufio’s chief diversions was to go into
Naranjito and follow the small procession of musicians
who, for the reward of a ticket, played through the
streets, advertising the moving picture show. This band,
in which there was usually a cornet, a guitar, a giiicharo,

and a drum, made more noise than music, it is true.
109
110 TALES OF BORINQUEN

But Fortufio’s hungry heart was able to distinguish the
melody from the racket, for he was born with a love for
music, and he was always more than eager to hear it.
On one glorious, unforgettable occasion he had had the
necessary ten cents to attend the cine. Wonderful as
the moving pictures were to the boy who had never be-
fore seen any, the music from the diplapidated old piano
was even more wonderful.

When Fortuiio came home, his father asked: “What
was the picture about, hijito?”

Fortuio was scarcely able to tell him, for the strains
of music he had heard were still echoing in his mind!
He thought that if only the opportunity to play the piano
should come to him just once, his happiness in this life
would be complete. But much as he would have liked
to realize such a dream, there seemed not the slightest
hope that he would ever do so. He would never dare
to ask the manager of the theater for permission to touch
the piano, for he was quite certain that he would be re-
fused.

Every clear Sunday the young men of the countryside
donned their best clothes and wandered up and down the
roads and well-worn mountain trails. In each group
there were several carrying musical instruments. Al-
ways there was the giiicharo, that carved and hollow
gourd, without the rasping rhythm of which Porto
Rican country folk scarcely ever play. Then there was
a cuatro, or bordonmia, or tiple—home-made stringed in-
struments very commonly seen in Porto Rico. If one
of the young men was especially fortunate, he might own
a guitar. Up and down the sunny roads wandered these
carefree groups of singers and players, lingering longest
THE HARMONICA 111

near certain houses to serenade the pretty girls within.

Fortufio always followed one of these troups of stroll-
ing minstrels, although they paid scant attention to him.
His fingers ached to pluck at the strings of their instru-
ments. Often he would beg to practice on one for just
a moment. Once in a great while he would be granted
this precious privilege. He learned to play the simple,
familiar tunes common to that part of the country quite
as well as any of the young men, who, however, never
allowed him the use of their instruments for long, be-
cause they themselves wished to play and make an im-
pression whenever any young ladies were near. You
can imagine the feelings of the little musician, Fortuio,
when some pretty girl was the innocent cause of his hav-
ing to surrender a cherished bordomiia or guitar, just as
he had managed to pick out a tune on it!

Fortuiio worked long and diligently, carving and fash-
ioning himself a cuatro out of guaraguao and yagrumo
wood. Finally it was finished with the exception of the
strings. But to his dismay, when Fortufio asked the
price of these in a shop in Naranjito, he found that they
would cost him twenty-five cents. It was simply an
enormous sum to him, for he never had any money at all.

“I shall earn it!” he declared bravely to himself.

But there are not many chances for a small boy to
earn money in Naranjito. Cent by cent Fortuio slowly
amassed his little hoard. A dozen times a day he vigor-
ously shook the old tin can which contained his wealth.
The metallic rattle of the coins was, for the time being,
the sweetest possible music to Fortufio’s ears.

Then, when he had saved twenty-one cents and his
goal was in sight, came disaster. Fortufio’s house caught
112 TALES OF BORINQUEN

fire and burned to the ground! And along with it was
destroyed the precious cuatro, and even the copper pen-
nies were lost among the ashes!

In his whole life Fortuio had never been so unhappy.
The next morning, as he scratched disconsolately among
the charred debris, searching for his lost pennies, the little
boy’s tears dropped silently. There was such an ache
tightening his throat that he felt he could never whistle
or sing again.

As to Fortuiio’s parents and their stricken neighbors
(for the conflagration had spread and consumed thirty
frail wooden houses before it could be extinguished)
their misery knew no bounds. Nearly everything that
they owned in the world had been burned, for the treach-
erous fire, having broken out at night, had left them
no opportunity to save anything except their lives.

By diligent search Fortufio found eight blackened
coins, but these had to be used at once to buy a little rice
and coffee for his suffering family. Soon the National
Guard of Porto Rico came to the poor people’s rescue
with cots and army tents. The American Red Cross
also began to send money, food, and clothing.

Now happened a miraculous thing. Out of his de-
spair there grew the greatest happiness Fortuilo had ever
known.

He stood in line with many other refugees of the fire,
to receive the clothes which were being handed out by
the kind ladies of the Red Cross. He was tired, for it
took a long time for each person to receive the proper
garments out of the great mass which had been donated.

“Whistle, Fortufio,” begged his friends. “It will help
to pass the time.”
THE HARMONICA 113

Although the boy hardly felt like doing so, he pursed
his lips and gave them his best imitation of a ruiseiior.
When he had finished, everyone was smiling, because for
a few moments their accommodating young friend had
made them forget their troubles.

 

The picturesque highway near Naranjito.

After waiting a while longer, Fortuiio had about
decided to run away and play, when suddenly it came his
turn. He stood timidly before a pretty lady, pathetic in
his ragged shirt and trousers, which were all he had been
able to find on the night of the fire.

“Let’s see what I have here for you, little boy,” said
the Seflora cheerfully, rummaging among the clothes.
She first drew out a little shirt. “This looks to be just
your size!” she exclaimed. Next she found some brown
114 TALES OF BORINQUEN

stockings and a pair of short trousers. Then came a
gray cap, which was in itself a treasure, since Fortufo
had never possessed a cap or hat of any kind. He put
it on and smiled so happily that the lady allowed him to
keep it, even though it was a man’s cap, far too large
for his curly head. While he was admiring the cap, she
found a pair of shoes for him. Now Fortuiio’s feet
were as unaccustomed to shoes as his head to hats, but
in his joy at wearing his first pair of shoes, he assured
the anxious lady that they fitted perfectly, though in truth
they were pinching his toes most painfully. He was
afraid to admit that they hurt for fear there would not
be another pair.

“There!” exclaimed the Sefiora, “I think you are well
supplied.”

“Muchas gracias, Seilora,” murmured the grateful boy
and turned to go.

“Oh, wait a minute,” called the lady.

Fortuflo turned around and saw that she was holding
up a little jacket.

“This looks to be exactly your size,” she said, “and
it would be a pity for you not to have it.” Fortufio’s
pleasant face and manners and his cheery whistling to
amuse the weary people had made such a good impres-
sion on her that she was being especially generous with
him. :

As Fortufio saw the attractive jacket, his heart leaped
with joy, for it, too, would be the first one he had ever
possessed. Not only had it been bought made-to-order
in a store, but it had apparently belonged to some rich
little boy who had so many coats that his mother could
THE HARMONICA 115

afford to give this one to the Red Cross, even though it
was scarcely worn.

“Oh, thank you,” gasped Fortuiio as he received it
into his trembling hands, feeling the while that the fire
had really brought him such good luck that he could now
be entirely happy were it not for the loss of his money
and his cuatro.

He began to run in order to show his splendid clothes
to his mother. Then he thought that he had better put
them on so as to make a finer impression. This he did
behind a clump of bushes. Some were too large and
some too small, but when he came to the jacket it fitted
perfectly. In great pride Fortufio reappeared and boy-
like thrust his hands into the pockets of his new coat.
Then happened the miracle.

Fortufio’s right hand encountered something hard and
cold.

What could it be? Slowly he drew it out. To his
wonder and joy he found that he held in his hand a sin-
fonia! Somewhat dented and old it was, to be sure, but
still capable of making just as much pretty music as on
the day when it was new! Fortufio, having seen a mouth
organ or harmonica played several times, knew what to
do; but he was so excited over his unexpected treasure
trove that he was out of breath and could scarcely bring
forth a note.

Now it can never be known whether the kind Red
Cross lady, on finding the mouth organ among the mass
of contributions, herself slipped it into the pocket of the
little coat to bring happiness to the whistling boy's heart,
or whether its presence there was due to the forgetful-
116 TALES OF BORINQUEN

ness of the former wearer of the jacket. But the fact
remains that Fortufio discovered it, and that it was the
first musical instrument he had ever owned, after having
longed for one all his days!

Immediately Fortuiio began to think of the various
tunes he was going to learn to play. He would soon
master the art of the sinfonia—of that he had no doubt.
How melodious were its soft notes, far more so than
those from any stringed instrument, except a violin!
Why, he could play the same tunes on it that one could
play on a piano! When Fortufio went to sleep in the
tent that night, the harmonica was clasped tightly in his
hand. In case of another fire he had determined not
to lose it.

Great as was the importance of the conflagration, of
even greater importance was its bringing of the little
old mouth organ to Fortuio. You will see.

Fortufio could scarcely be persuaded by his friends
to play games any more or even to whistle. Each day
he sat with his precious sinfonia struggling to learn to
play it all by himself. This soon proved to be far more
difficult than he had anticipated. After two weeks he
was able to play only one very easy tune and that not
at all skillfully. There was something about the tech-
nique of the small instrument that he was not able to
master. Oh, if there were only some one to teach him!
In one lesson he felt that he could learn, so great was his
desire. But where was there a teacher, and where the
money with which to pay him if there had been one?
Blessings in Fortufio’s life were never, it seemed, to be
without their drawbacks.

Fortufio sat in the doorway of his father’s new palm-
THE HARMONICA 117

thatched home, blowing discordantly but steadily at his
harmonica. Quite out of breath at last, he raised his
eyes to discover that the prettiest lady he had ever seen
was standing near him. She was tall and slender and
wore a dress of black silk. Her beautiful hair was white
above a face softened by sorrow. Her large brown eyes
were full of tears. As Fortufio stared at this stranger
in surprise, she spoke to him in a soft, low voice that
was like the caress of a warm summer breeze. “You
are having trouble, little boy,” she said. “You seem to
be trying very hard to play, but without success. You
ought to have some one to teach you.”

“Si, Seiiora,” replied Fortufio timidly, as he rose
politely to his feet, “I know it. I want to learn to play
more than anything else, but I have no teacher.”

Again the pretty lady’s eyes brimmed with tears. “If
that is really so,” she said, “then come with me, for I
know some one who will be very glad to teach you.”
Her words sounded to Fortuiio as sweet as though ut-
tered by an angel. Perhaps this beautiful lady was an
angel in earthly guise.

Young Fortufio moved gladly towards her, then stopped
in dismay. “Sefiora, I have no money at all. I cannot
pay a teacher.”

“Come. Even if you had money, this teacher would
not take it. He will instruct you for the joy of doing
it; you will see.” :

“For the joy of doing it.” Fortufio had never heard
quite so pretty a phrase; the words seemed to make music
in his heart. He walked beside the lady through the
streets of Naranjito as in a dream.

“It is my son, Anibal, who will teach you,” she was
118 TALES OF BORINQUEN

explaining. “He plays the acordedn, the flauta, the sin-
fonia, all three. He will not be able to see you for . . .
he is blind. But very quickly he will comprehend your
love of music, which is his own greatest consolation and
joy.”

Fortufio listened in amazement. A blind boy! How
could a blind boy teach him? The mother was kind, but
mistaken, surely.

They paused at last before a pretty little house with an
enormous vine of pink bellisima trailing over the door-
way in an arch of heavenly beauty.

“Come in,” invited the gracious Sefiora.

Just as she spoke, the clear notes of a flute sounded
from within as though in greeting to them.

“It is Anibal,” she whispered. “He always welcomes
me home with music, for his ear detects my footsteps
along the street.”

It was the first time that Fortufio had heard a flute,
and he was enchanted by it, as he always was by any
kind of music.

“Anibal!” called his mother, as she and Fortuno came
into the sala of the humble home which, with its chairs,
table, and pictures was more elegant than any Fortuilo
had ever entered. “Anibal, come, I have brought you
a new friend. It is a little boy called Fortufio who is
very anxious to learn to play the sinfonia.”

The blind musician stopped playing and rose to greet
them. Fortufio saw that he was a young man of about
nineteen or twenty. “Welcome, Fortunito,” he said with
a friendly smile, holding out his hand, which Fortuno
grasped bashfully, for so simple had been his existence
that he had seldom shaken hands with anyone. Al-
THE HARMONICA 119

though he did not realize it, his ambition was leading
and would lead him into ever more interesting and more
worth-while experiences. Thus ambition always does.

Anibal and his mother invited Fortutio to sit down,
and in a few moments he was talking and telling them
how he had found his harmonica, and then how it was
his dream to become a real musician. “But I am so
poor,” he finished, “that I doubt if I ever shall.”

There shone a beautiful light of happiness on the blind
boy’s pallid face. “Just the ambition I once had, ma-
mita!” he exclaimed. Fortunately he could not see the
tears which again filled his mother’s eyes as he con-
tinued: “Let me teach you what I know, Fortuiito. I
can tell by your voice that you are serious and sincere.
Let me teach you in order that my ambition may be
realized through you. Come here to my side. The les-
sons shall begin at once!”

“His voice is happier than it has been for many a
day!” thought his mother gratefully. :

Fortuno’s emotion was so intense that a great lump
seemed to be stuck in his throat, making him choke over,
the thanks he tried to express as he moved reverently
to the side of his first music master. But Anibal was
beaming with delight over this sudden new interest which
had come into his dark life. To have such a pleasant
task before him seemed in some way to bring light
directly into his soul through a finer medium than mere
eyes could be. “Sit here!” he said. “Watch me, For-
tufiito!” and he put his own harmonica to his lips.

Thus began the first lesson.

Every day thereafter IFortufio came early to the home
of his teacher and stayed late. He brought sweet flowers
f

120 TALES OF BORINQUEN

that Anibal might enjoy their perfume, and he was sur-
prised that the blind boy could identify each flower by
its scent. One day Fortufio presented his young maestro
with a mocking-bird, in a wooden cage that he had made
himself. Then both master and pupil discovered some-
thing very pleasant. Whenever Anibal played his flute,
the bird would join in harmoniously with its imitating
song.

They were happy days, while Fortufio was learning to
play his harmonica under the guidance -of his blind
teacher. But at last Anibal said: “I have taught you
all that IT know. You play as well as I do. Soon you
will play even better. . . .”

“Oh, no!” protested Fortufio in quick loyalty, “I shall
never play so well as you, dear Anibal!”

“I appreciate your modesty, Fortufiito, but you must
not feel that way. It has now become my ambition for
you to succeed in my stead. Each time I listen to you
I wish to hear improvement in your playing.”

Fortuflo, realizing the seriousness with which Anibal
spoke, promised that he would try to be worthy of the
other’s interest and generosity.

Very soon [Fortuio had learned several of the well-
known and beloved Porto Rican dansas. He played
them not only with technical skill but with genuine feel-
ing for their haunting beauty. At first it was sufficient
pleasure for him simply to play, his only audience being
Anibal or his young friends, who now admired him
more than ever.

Thus the little musician of the hills attained renown
among all who knew him. When he executed lively
dance tunes, no feet could remain still. Often at twi-
THE HARMONICA 121

light or on lovely moonlit evenings the sweet strains of
the old sinfonia de boca would arrest the attention of
people passing along the lonely trails. And such was
the beauty and pathos of the music, that more than once
a member of this unknown and unseen audience would
wipe away a tear. What greater tribute than that could
be paid to any musician?

One day one of his friends said to Fortuio: “Why
do you not go to the manager of the cine and ask him to
let you play in the band which advertises the films? Then
you would be able to go to the moving pictures free.”

IFortufio trembled. What a splendid suggestion!
Why had he not thought of doing such a thing before?
He would go at once and ask the manager if he might
play in the band. He had different reasons for wanting
to go, however, from those suggested by his friend. It
was not that he did not care for the motion pictures, but
he loved the music of the piano more. Don Salvador,
who played the piano, was Fortufio’s hero, second only
to his dear Anibal. What ecstasy it would give him to
be able to hear Don Salvador play whenever he desired!
Fortuno arrived at the little office of the cine manager, so
out of breath from haste that for five minutes he could
not render the melody that the man had asked for in
order to find out if he could really play.

Finally IFortuno managed to bring forth the opening
bars of a lively sequidilla and did it so well that the
manager told him he might join the band the very next
time they played. How easy it had been! Fortufio
hastened to tell the good news to Anibal, and then walked
home as if on air.

When Fortuiio marched through the streets with the
122 TALES OF BORINQUEN

small band, it was not long before the townspeople dis-
covered that he was the cleverest of all the musicians.
They were constantly telling the others to be quiet that
Fortuio might give them a solo. Since he was only a
little boy, the rest of the band felt no jealousy and were
glad to let him do it. Had he been a man, it is doubt-
ful whether they would have been so willing. By this
solo playing Fortufio soon became known throughout the
town, and many more people followed the band than
formerly. Consequently the attendance at the theater
was considerably increased, and the manager was so
pleased with the services of Fortuio that he occasion-
ally gave the boy an extra ticket for a member of his
family or a friend.

For a long time Fortuiio was content with his enor-
mous good fortune. The simple bliss of sitting in the
darkened theater and listening to the piano was all he
asked from life. But, as the weeks went by, a desire,
which would not be put aside, began to grow in the boy’s
mind. He loved his harmonica, it is true, but more than
anything else he now wanted to play the piano, which
seemed to him, since he had never seen or heard a better
one, the most gloriously perfect instrument in existence.
But would he ever dare to touch it? Could he ask the
manager to let him practice on anything so valuable?
Never!

He asked his benefactor what he might do, but Anibal
was helpless in his blindness and knew so little about
the ways of the world that he could give no advice,
though he realized that if Fortufio could learn to play
the piano, it would be a great step forward in his career.

Poor Fortuiio was once more in despair. Then one
THE HARMONICA 123

day he arrived early at the theater and found his hero,
the young pianist, practicing some new pieces.

Fortufio stood in the background, lost in admiration.
Oh, would he ever in his life be able to play like that?
Slowly, slowly he crept nearer the musician and the piano.
At last Salvador became aware of Fortufio’s presence.
He turned around on the piano bench and said: “What
do you want, little boy?”

Fortufio’s heart leaped into his mouth. Dare he ex-
press the desire which had been uppermost in his mind
for so long? Faltering and stammering, he replied:
“Oh, Don Salvador, would it—would it hurt the piano
if—if T touched the keys just once? I will be very care-
ful!” he added hastily, feeling that he could not bear to
be refused, even though he was almost certain that he
would be.

The young piano player looked wonderingly at the
poor boy. He had never heard anyone ask for any-
thing with such utter longing in his voice. He laughed.
“Why, of course you may touch it,” he said rising and
not in the least understanding the real significance of
Fortufio’s request. “Don’t be afraid. You won’t hurt
it any.”

Trembling with joy, and at the same time overcome
with embarrassment, Fortufio seated himself at the piano,
sure that this was the crowning moment of his life. In
a way it was.

Timidly, in fact reverently, he touched the cracked
and yellowed keys. Those first soft, experimental notes
he thought to be the most exquisite he had ever produced.
And in a sense he was right. In those moments, though
neither he nor his listener guessed it, he was making
124 'TALES OF BORINQUEN

history rather than music. There was something lovely
and prophetic in those tones. Without quite knowing
why, Salvador, who stood behind Fortufio, was reminded
of a day when he had watched a beautiful butterfly
emerge from a cocoon.

For perhaps five minutes Fortuno ran his fingers over
the keys. He knew nothing about piano playing, yet
the sounds he made were not discords. At last he rose,
for at that moment he could stand no more of such hap-

piness. His eyes welled with tears as somehow he man-

aged to thank the friendly pianist. He stumbled out of
the dim theater. The young man he left behind looked
after him in inexplicable astonishment. Then, though he
could not have told the reason why, he closed the piano
without playing another note. He dimly felt that after
what had just happened, it would be sacrilege for him
to play it any more that day. And it would have been,
for during those moments when Fortufio first sat at the
rickety piano of the Naranjito theater, a thing of great
importance took place.

Fortufio walked home very slowly, his mind in con-
fusion, his fingers still tingling from their contact with
the piano keys. At first he could think of nothing but
the joy of his recent experience. From the depths of
his full heart a song arose. Instantly he felt that he
should like to be playing what he was singing. And that
was the most significant incident of the momentous day.
For the song that Fortufio was singing had never been
sung before. Though he scarcely realized it, he was
composing music—and beautiful music too!

So absorbing were Fortufio’s thoughts that his feet

carried him very slowly—so slowly that the rising moon
THE HARMONICA 125

overtook him on his way home. Responding to the
loveliness of that radiant flood of silver light, Fortufio
sat down on a grassy bank and, pulling his sinfonia from
his pocket, began to improvise music in an interpretation
of the magic of the night. But his mind was not on
what he was doing. His experience of the afternoon was
still vividly with him. Now he was trying to devise
some definite means of repeating it, not once, but many
times!

Suddenly the most logical plan of all suggested itself
to him. Why had he not thought of it before? He
would go to the manager and ask him to let him practice
on the piano, instead of attending the pictures, as pay-
ment for his playing in the band! This seemed so sim-
ple that Fortufio sprang to his feet to return to Naranjito.
Then he realized for the first time that it was very late,
and so he hastened home instead, promising himself to
go to the manager the first thing on the morrow. He
accompanied his steps with such a lively air that all along
the dark way people in their little hillside homes smiled
broadly on hearing him.

“Our Fortufio is very happy tonight,” they remarked.

But the next day brought doubts to the poor boy's
mind. How could he hope that in reward for his small
services the manager would grant him such a magnificent
boon? Surely he would hesitate—even refuse—to trust
his costly piano to the practice of one so completely
ignorant of its uses as Fortuflo. The boy went slowly
to the home of Anibal that he might discuss his dilemma
with his best friend.

“The only thing for you to do is to ask,” advised
Anibal. “He can do nothing more than refuse you.”
126 TALES OF BORINQUEN

But so great was Fortufio’s fear of that very refusal
that it was several days before the modest little musician
could gather sufficient courage to present himself before
the manager. If only the man had not been so very tall
—had not looked so forbiddingly stern! But here was
Fortufio in his presence at last, and speak he must or
appear to be a silly boy who did not know his own mind.

“Well?” asked the manager, who remembered the for-
mer bashfulness of his young friend.

“Oh, Senor,” began Fortufio tremblingly, “I have a
great favor to ask you!”

“Go ahead,” said the manager, who secretly feared
that Fortufio was going to say he would not play in the
band any more. He was certainly going to try to pre-
vent this, for the boy, although entirely unaware of it,
was really one of the manager's most popular assets.

“Do not think, Sefior,” continued Fortufio, in his ex-
cess of timidity, “that I do not enjoy coming to the cine.
I do—very much. You have been very kind to me, and
I thank you. But, oh, Sefior, the ambition of my life
is to learn to play the piano!” There! It was out at
last! What would the man say to him?

But the manager remained mystified. This was cer-
tainly not what he had expected to hear. “I don’t un-
derstand—"" he said.

“It is that I do not wish to come to the moving pictures
any more, in return for my playing the sinfonia, but if
you would just let me slip in here sometimes during the
daytime and practice for a little—a wery little while, on
your piano!” gasped Fortuio.

The manager looked entirely surprised. “Is that all
you wish?” he asked. “Why did you not say so sooner?

 
THE HARMONICA 127

Of course you may do it, if you really want to, and you
may come to see the pictures besides!” he finished gener-
ously. He had no idea of the overwhelming joy that
his carelessly uttered consent had brought to the heart of
the ragged little fellow who was now looking at him
in such gratitude that mere words were not adequate to
express his feelings.

The manager read such thankfulness in those brown
eyes that he shook his head in bewilderment. How could
it be that the granting of so small a favor should seem
so marvelous to any one? It was a strange world!

Suddenly Fortufo, unable to convey his thanks by
speech, held out his hand. In grasping it, the smiling
manager did not realize that he was holding the hand of
a future musician and composer. He would have laughed
at even the suggestion of such a thing. Yet by giving
his consent to Fortuno’s request, he had done almost as
much toward the boy’s future as had the person who left
the mouth organ in the pocket of the little coat.

From that day Fortunio took full advantage of the
manager’s offer. His playmates seldom saw him and
had to go without a great part of their former enter-
tainment. One thing that the manager had requested
was that Fortufio come alone, as he was afraid other boys
might do some damage playing about in the theater.
This was exactly what Fortufio wanted—to be alone.
Very soon Salvador, the young man who played for
the pictures, found out what had happened. One day he
dropped into the empty theater. He heard Fortufio
struggling to master the simple mechanics of piano play-
ing, which were more difficult than the poor boy had
imagined they would be. Salvador, remembering the
128 TALES OF BORIN QUEN

first solemn day that Fortufio had sat at the piano, took
pity on the ambitious boy and offered to teach him the
rudiments of time, fingering, notes, scales, and so on.
To Fortufio, Salvador suddenly seemed almost as much
like an angel as his dear, blind friend, Anibal!

Seeing how quickly and well Fortufio learned every-
thing that he taught him, carefree Don Salvador became
interested. Now he was no musician at heart, as was
Anibal, nor did he aspire to be one, but he had a fair
mastery of the technique of playing. Dimly he could
understand that Fortufio was not an ordinary boy. The
eagerness of the poverty-stricken lad to learn to play
touched the heart of the well-to-do young man as few
other things had done. “There is more to this boy than
one would suspect from his ragged appearance,” he
thought. “He seems to have a natural talent for music.
Perhaps some day he will be a notable musician. But it
will be a hard struggle if no one teaches him the elemen-
tary essentials. He certainly can never hire a teacher.
Since I have nothing to do but enjoy myself during the
day, why not teach him what I can?”

It is doubtful whether Salvador thought this in so
many words but, be that as it may, he went home for his
music books. Though they were somewhat torn—for
he had been a careless student who had by no means
appreciated his opportunities—they were still in fit con-
dition for Fortufio to learn from.

Although kindly, well-meaning Salvador had his two
good eyes, it will be seen that in some ways he was
blinder than Anibal. For Anibal had sensed in a very
few moments the real depth of the ambition of Fortuno,
so closely in harmony were their artistic souls,
THE HARMONICA 129

So Don Salvador taught the poor, grateful boy, and
though he was not a very skillful teacher, such was
Fortuno’s eagerness that he soon knew as much as his
master and a little later surpassed him entirely. Then
Salvador said, much as Anibal had once said: “I can
teach you no more, but, with the will to learn that you
possess, I predict that there will be no limit to your
success |”

Fortufio glowed under these words of sincere praise,
and well-dressed, young Salvador went away wondering
why he had a feeling that he had just completed the most
valuable work of his rather idle life.

Fortufio continued his daily practicing, but again things
had come to a standstill for him. He had no money with
which to buy music, and he had no knowledge of how
to preserve the original pieces which, driven by his neces-
sity to play something, he was fortunately compelled to
compose !

Then it seemed that Salvador did the one thing more
that remained for him to do for the boy he had already
helped so much. He fell down and broke his arm! The
manager, calling at his home was greatly excited.
“Whom can I get to play for the cine?” he asked. “I
know of no one else in Naranjito but you.”

“Yes,” replied Salvador, “there is one other.”

“Who?” queried the manager doubtfully.

“Fortuiio.”

“What? That ragged urchin? Impossible! What
can he play?” and the manager laughed incredulously.

“Try him,” urged Salvador. “You will be surprised.
Go to your theater and hear him. He must be practic-
ing at this hour, And let me tell you, sir, I think that
130 TALES OF BORINQUEN

you did a greater thing than you dreamed of, when you
gave that young Fortufio permission to use your piano.”

The manager urged Salvador to take care of his arm
that it might mend quickly and took his departure. He
went to the theater with some curiosity. As he en-
tered the dimly lighted building, he was surprised to hear
beautiful strains of music issuing from his old piano—
more beautiful than he had thought the worn-out instru-
ment capable of producing.

His eyes, temporarily blinded by suddenly coming in--
doors out of the bright sunlight, could not distinguish
the musician clearly. “Some one must have dropped
in to try over some pieces on my piano,” he thought.
“How extremely well he plays! I must see who it is.
Perhaps I can get him to play for the cine until Salva-
dor recovers. What luck!” and he advanced toward the
piano.

What, then, was his complete astonishment when, as
his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw that
the excellent musician was no other than his young
friend, Fortufio, who, blissfully unaware of the mana-
ger’s presence, continued to play as though he were pour-
ing out his very soul in the darkness of the empty theater.
The manager held his breath. What miracle was this
that had taken place by his consent but without his
knowledge?

When Fortufio discovered the presence of the manager,
he sprang to his feet deeply embarrassed. “Well, well,
well,” exclaimed the manager still unable to believe his
own ears and not knowing what to say. ‘Salvador has
broken his arm. Here,” he said with sudden inspiration,
“here is some money. Buy yourself some clothes and
THE HARMONICA 131

shoes and be ready to play for the cine tonight, and for
some time to come!”

Fortufio’s emotions were indescribable. How he
thanked the man, or made his way out, or found his way
home to tell the marvelous news to his dumfounded
parents, he never knew. Somehow the long day passed.
As he had been bidden, he appeared that night at the
theater, accompanied by a large number of friends and
relatives who were scarcely able to believe that what he
told them was really true. Their humble Fortufio able
to play the piano for the cine? Impossible! How in the
world had he ever learned to play? They had not known
anything about it, as Fortufio had kept it a secret from
all except his own mother and Anibal and his pretty
mother, who now came leading her blind son to the
theater that he, too, might be present on this great occa-
sion.

During the day the manager had not been idle. He
had spread the news of the boy-wonder far and wide,
and, as all the townspeople already knew Fortufio through
his excellent playing of the sinfonia, they thronged to
the theater to hear whether that poor little boy could really
play the piano. How in the world had he been able to
learn to do it? Such a thing was incredible.

The manager heard so many doubts expressed that he
began to wonder if what he had listened to that morning
had not been the magic music of a dream. He began to
regret the great placard that he had had printed in giant
red letters in front of the theater telling of the début of
Fortufio, the boy-pianist. What if he had been mis-
taken? He trembled to think of the ridicule and teasing
he would have to suffer. He was somewhat reassured
132 TALES OF BORINQUEN

when Fortufio, looking very handsome in his new clothes,
appeared before him in his small office and said that he
was ready to play.

“Can you really do it?” asked the manager. “If you
feel that you can’t, say so, and we can announce that
you are ill or something or other.”

“I think I can do it,” replied Fortufno bravely, though
he was nearly ill from excitement and from the fear of
playing for the first time under a roof before an audience
who had paid money to come in!

But when Fortufio entered the theater and saw dhe
crowd which filled it to the doors, he lost even the waver-
ing courage he had felt when alone with the manager.
Oh, he could never play before all those people! He had
a bad attack of stage fright. As he sat down before the
piano and heard the crowd applaud, his hands felt sud-
denly heavy as though he could never lift them to the
keyboard. How his mother’s heart ached for her boy in
those moments! She would have liked to snatch him
up as though he were a little child and run away with him.

Fortunately the lights went dim and the picture began.
Now was the moment. Fortufio must start to play.
How grateful he was for the darkness! It was with
only a little light that he had been accustomed to practice.
Suddenly he felt at home. Placing his hands on the
familiar keys, he began to play.

A silence fell over the audience, who listened first in
surprise and then forgot to be surprised in their enjoy-
ment of the music. For just as Fortufio had uncon-
sciously been able to move the unseen and unknown
audiences of the hills with his harmonica, so now was he
able with the piano to move the men, women, and
THE HARMONICA 133

children packed in rows behind him. For through the
boy's playing there came radiant glimpses of that strange
quality called genius, with which only a few mortals are
ever blessed.

On and on Fortuno played as he was wont to do every
day, not realizing the sensation he was causing, for a like
event had never taken place in Naranjito before. When
it was finished, scarcely a person could have told what the
picture had been, for everyone was engaged in wild ac-
claim of this unexpected prodigy who had so miracu-
lously been discovered in their own village.

Later that evening, Salvador, who had been one of the
enthusiastic audience, sought out the manager of the
theater and said to him with a twinkle in his eye, “I told
you so!”

“You certainly did!” laughed the other.

“So now you will not need to protest when I further
inform you that in September my father is going to send
me to the United States to attend a university, for you
have someone far better than I ever would be, to take
my place as pianist!”

“Oh, no, Salvador—" began the manager in polite pro-
test.

*Oh, yes!” laughed the other. “I even predict that
Naranjito will one day be made famous by Fortuio,
its obscure son!”

Fortunio continued to fulfill the duties of Salvador.
Every day he went to see him, trying in his gratitude to
think of something he might do to help the other’s arm.
But Salvador only laughed and told him that Providence
had caused his timely accident. Fortunio felt that he
could not play well enough to repay kind Salvador.
134 TALES OF BORINQUEN

When his friend departed for his four-years’ course of
study in the north, Fortufio was so sad that he told
Anibal he was sure he could never play again. Four
years seemed so long to him that he felt as though Salva-
dor had gone away forever. But for the aid of this kind
friend, Fortufio declared that the opportunity, indeed the
art of playing, would never have been his.

Anibal comforted his friend, saying, “By going away
the young musician has done a great good. In fact, he has
added the final touch to the training that he so gener-
ously gave because of his realization of your talents. In
order to be worthy of his friendship, Fortufio, you ought
now to return to music with a new seriousness and put
even more effort into it than you were able to do before.
Do not be sad because Salvador is gone, but begin to
practice anew this very day, in order that you may sur-
prise him when he returns.”

And those who were able to judge declared that
Fortufio had never played with so much depth of feeling
as he did after Salvador’s departure. “Something has
awakened the boy,” they said. “He is trying to be worthy
of his dear teacher.” Naranjito is such a limited
community that the loss for four years of as likable a
young fellow as Salvador was felt and understood by
everyone.

So popular did the playing of Fortufio become that the
manager felt it his duty to purchase a new piano. He was
ashamed to have the young pianist, who was gaining such
renown, play any longer on the nearly worn-out instru-
ment. However, Fortufio, charmed as he was with the
new piano, still had such an affection for the old one that
THE HARMONICA 135

he begged the manager to let him have it. He had it
taken to the new home of his family in town, for now he
was earning such a good salary by his playing that they
had moved away from the poor dwelling on the outskirts.
Thus Fortuno was able to practice in his own home, and
there he entertained his friends and former neighbors
who, still being too poor to go often to the theater, came
to his house to hear him play. There he often led his
friend and former teacher, Anibal, and played to him
for hours at a time. How proud everyone in Naranjito
was to have known the boy who was now nearly a young
man! What looks of affection they directed towards an
old sinfonia which always lay on top of the piano!
Fortufio realized that if he were ever to be a real
musician, he must leave Naranjito to study. He carefully
saved what money he could, but he had not the slightest
idea what to do next. Salvador was the only person he
had ever known who had studied music outside the village,
and now he was gone. There was no one, not even Ani-
bal, who could give him the advice he needed. Most of his
friends already considered him a master and could see
no reason why he should wish to study more. But
Fortufio knew his limitations only too well. One of
his chief preoccupations was that he could not record
the music of his own composition; it was this music
that made him most beloved and admired by all. Espe-
cially was he interested in composing dansas, for they are
the native music of Porto Rico, and Fortuno was ambi-
tious to contribute to the art of his country. A lovely
danza with its rippling melody, its soft minor cadences,
its sudden bursts of rapturous sound, which sink again
136 TALES OF BORINQUEN

to an almost inaudible whisper, its plaintiveness mixed
with gaiety and, under all, its basic pathos, well expresses
the beauty, the soul of Porto Rico.

One day Fortufio had been thinking more than ever
that he must soon do something definite about continuing
his studies. He was still just as ambitious as he had
been so long ago when he had labored to make the ill-
fated cuatro. As he sat in the darkness of the cine that
night, all the longing that he felt crept into his music.

“Our Fortufio has never played so well,” whispered
his friends.

Now Fortuno’s fame had gradually spread beyond
his own village, and to different parts of the island had
come rumors of the boy prodigy of Naranjito. One
of the persons who had heard of him was Senor Miranda
of San Juan, who owned a large plantation near Na-
ranjito. He resolved to hear Fortuno play when he
visited there. Senior Miranda himself was a skillful
musician, and he was curious to hear the boy play who,
it was said, had learned to do so without any professional
training. Senior Miranda thought this hardly possible.

By reason perhaps of that lucky fate which always
seemed to hang over Fortuflo, Seiior Miranda happened
to be in Naranjito on the very night when the boy's per-
plexity over his future was greatest, and when his playing
was consequently more poignant and beautiful than it
had ever been.

As Seiior Miranda bought his ticket to enter the cine,
he was recognized by the manager, who, knowing him
to be an accomplished musician, wished that he might
have time to warn Fortufio;«but it was too late, for the
picture had already begun.
THE HARMONICA 137

Now it happened that just as Sefior Miranda entered
the theater, Fortufio began to play, with especially deep
feeling, one of the danzas which he had composed. It
was so inspired that Sefior Miranda could not but be-
lieve that he was listening to a professional player—indeed
a master of the art. Though he did not recognize the

 

 

Panorama near Sefior Miranda’s plantation.

particular danza, he resolved to find out what it was so
that he might add it to his collection, for it was one of
the best he had ever heard. He could not believe that
the player was the poor boy he had come to hear, but he
stayed on to the end to enjoy the extraordinary music.
What, then, was his surprise, when the lights came on, to
find that after all it was the boy! All that he had heard
was true, and more! He doubted whether any one in
the village realized what a really remarkable musician
their popular Fortufio was.
138 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“All Porto Rico, if T am any judge,” thought Sefior
Miranda, “will some day recognize and honor that boy!”
He hastily made his way to Fortufio, introduced himself,
and invited the young musician to come to his home to
talk about music.

Fortuflo, as timid and as modest as ever, could scarcely
believe his good fortune. For on the rare occasions
when Seflor Miranda came to stay in his country home,
Fortufio had often crept near the house to listen to him
playing on his grand piano. To think that now he should
actually be complimented by one whom he in his obscurity
had admired so much! ‘Seftor Miranda is an answer
to my prayers,” thought Fortufio joyously, “for he is
thoroughly familiar with music and surely he can tell
me what I have been longing to know concerning my
future studies!” He smiled up at the stars, as the
luxurious car of Sefior Miranda sped almost noiselessly
along the country road.

“By the way,” remarked Fortufio’s companion, “that
danza you played was one of the most beautiful IT have
ever heard. Please tell me the name of it, for I should
like to buy it.”

Fortufio scarcely believed that he could have heard
aright. “Why,” he stammered, “it—it has no name,
Senior Miranda.”

“No name? How can that be?”

“Well—because I—I composed it. It is not written
down anywhere, because I do not know how to write
music. Oh, Sefior,” continued Fortuflo eagerly, with-
out waiting for the astonished man to reply, “that is
what I want to ask you. How shall T study? Where?
THE HARMONICA 139

How can I learn to write my compositions? For that
is what I long to do more than anything else!”

Sefior Miranda did not reply, for he had not heard.
He was still trying to understand how this inexperienced
mountain lad could have actually composed that wonder-
ful danza. “Did you really do it?” he asked.

“Yes, Sefior,” replied Fortufio, “I have always im-
provised music, sir, ever since the time I found my
simfonia.”

“And how was that?” asked Senor Miranda, more
interested in Fortufio than he had ever been in anyone.

And so Fortufio told Sefior Miranda his whole story,
as I have related it here, though, of course, he was ex-
tremely modest, giving full praise to all those who had
aided him, and taking no credit at all for his own re-
markable achievement.

The result was that Sefior Miranda gave him the advice
he needed, nay more, became his counselor, friend, and
helper for many years thereafter, so that Fortufio had
another name to add to his list of those who had contrib-
uted to the success that henceforth was his. He never
forgot any of his first friends and shared all his joys and
triumphs with them, even when he became a great com-
poser, one of the greatest Porto Rico has ever known,
even when his fame went far beyond his native shores
and into every corner of the world where good music is
enjoyed and played.

But the name which the illustrious musician and com-
poser could never honor was that of the unknown person
who gave him the mouth organ. So to do homage as best
he might to the very first of his many benefactors, he
140 TALES OF BORINQUEN

had a magnificent frame made to hold and preserve the
old sinfonia, and hung it in a conspicuous place on the
wall of the music room in his attractive city home. And
he never grew tired of telling the tale of the harmonica
to all who asked to hear it.

ON LOIZA PROMONTORY

The sea, which all day rolled in egitation,
Relaxed, quiet and spent,

When the passion of a blazing sunset

Began to wane. . . .

I turned toward the tranquil east

Where the thin blue clearness of the evening
Was already silvered with expectancy. . . .
Then that far mysterious union of the sea and sky
Released a huge gold ball

Into the gleaming flood. . . .

And the vast purport of that glorious birth
Filled the bated twilight with silence

Until an old Spanish wayfarer,

Who had cautiously approached, spoke thus:
“Ochenta afios hace que vivo en esta tierra,
Pero jamas he visto semejante milagro;

i Verdad, que es obra de la Providencia!” *

* “Fighty years have I lived on this earth,
Yet never have I seen a like miracle;
In truth, it is the work of God!”
CONTRASTS

I spent a day alone . . .

And all that morning,

Hot in the turquoise sky,

Burned the white sun;

And T sat by the garden wall

Watching the sea,

Calm and round like some inconceivable shell—

All mother-of-pearl,

Iridescent,

With infinite glistening surfaces

Of blue, deep purple, pale orchid, and hints of rose among
green shades as varied as the coloring of leaves from
first-spring to mid-summer.

In palm shade, I;

But close by on the stone wall,

Where beat the fierce bright heat,

Lay a lizard—

Long, shining, utterly immovable,
With eternally-fixed and satiated eyes.
A long, long time I watched,

While the opalescent surf

Foamed on the burning sand. . . .

All suddenly—it were seeming impossible—
Came a memory, sharp as cold iron,
Piercing my vacant stare:

141
142 + TALES OF BORINQUEN

I saw a bleak winter-road, desolate and snow-filled;
Two penciled tracks disappeared in a cold blue distance,
While on either side

Stood gaunt black trees.

I spent a night alone . . .

And a south-sea moon of dull gold

Rose slowly through the darkness,
Breaking it into an amazing fantasy

Of swaying silhouettes . . .

And warm blew a heavy wind

Which I knew had fanned red roses. . . .

But again

Came a keen reality

Of ragged poplar trees,

Bending in a gale

Which whirled their dead leaves
Scurrying like witch-children
Across a storm-ridden winter moon.

EPHEMERA

Each palm wears a glistening nimbus of tears;

Each phosphor-wave gleams as it silvers the sand. . . .
I must worship,
For morning comes early!

Each star-ray has sought you through infinite space;
A shimmering moon-halo trails round your hair. . . .
I must worship,
For death too comes early!
TIMID MAX

“Angelina Flores has a son!” The word went from
one small home to another in the Yauco coffee district.
Soon friendly neighbor women hastened to the home of
Angelina to see her child.

There they found their friends, Angelina and her hus-
band, Juan, proudly looking at their first son.

“What are you going to name him, Angelina?’ asked
the women after they had admired the baby.

The happy mother answered in this way: “We are
poor and doubtless we always shall be. Hence we shall
probably never be able to do very much for this child.
But there is one fine thing I can give him. It costs no
money. He will always have it, and no one can take it
from him.”

“What is that?” asked the other women in great curi-
osity.

“A name!” replied Angelina. “A grand, impressive
name which will distinguish him when he is a man!”

The women stared at her in astonishment. Such a
thing would never have occurred to them. All their sons
were called by common names such as Pedro, Juan, or
Luis. They considered Angelina’s idea very clever. So
at her request they all began to suggest names for the tiny
infant which she held tenderly in her arms. She wanted
to see if they would think of a better name than she had
already decided upon.

143
144 TALES OF BORINQUEN

’

“Bernardino,” offered one, recalling the most unusual
name she knew,

“Bartolomé,” cried another.

“Godofredo,” suggested a third.

It became as exciting as a game. “Ezequiel!” ex-
claimed a woman who was very religious. “Or Gere-
mia, or Zacarias, or Geronimo!” she added.

“Benedicto, Ildefonso, Atanasio, Erasmo,” all the
women were now speaking at once.

“No, thank you,” said Angelina, holding up her hand
to stop them. “It is of no use to continue, for I have al-
ready thought of a name which is finer than any of those
you have mentioned—more unusual, more impressive. I
have decided that my son shall be christened—"" she paused
a moment so as to keep them in suspense, and they all
waited breathlessly—“MaximrriaNo!” she announced in
triumph to her circle of friends, and each of them re-
sponded at once with words of admiration.

“A boy with a name like that ought to be a great man,”
they solemnly agreed.

So the tiny mountain child was christened with the
high-sounding name of Maximiliano. But what a mouth-
ful it was! People thought this appellation entirely too
long for the tiny fellow and they very soon shortened it
to “Max.” And by this name the child was known to all
except his mother. She always called him “Maximi-
liano.”

“Tt is your name,” she told him, “and by it I shall call
you. It is a fine name, little son, and you should grow
up to be a great and noble man.”

“But I am only a poor mountain boy,” said Max, who
was now in the fifth grade of a small rural school. “How
TIMID MAX 145

can I ever be great, mamita, I who was born so far away
from the large cities?”

“There have been other famous Porto Ricans who were
not born in cities; neither did they have wealth. Even
the illustrious Mufioz Rivera himself came from a small
mountain town! Study, Maximiliano, study hard.
Study, that you, too, may not have to be a lowly coffee-
picker like your father and me. But above all, my son,
be good and modest. A good heart is a noble heart,

 

 

In the coffee district near Max’s home.

whether it belong to a poor or a rich man; a good deed
is a noble deed whether it be great or small.”

With such loving advice as this, Maximiliano’s mother
guided his childhood and that of his younger brothers and
sisters. Then, one day, she fell sick with a fever. Her
husband went the long rough miles over the mountains
to Yauco and brought back a doctor. But the doctor was
not able to save her. So Max was left without a mother
at the age of ten years.
146 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Angelina's last words to her child were: “Strive to
become educated, Maximiliano, my son!”

After this Max continued to attend the small rural
school for another year and so passed through the sixth
grade. Then he could go no more, for there were no
higher grades in that school. This made him very sad,
for he had never forgotten the words of his mother. He
read the few textbooks that he had until they were nearly
worn out. Whenever he could get hold of a piece of
plain paper, he practiced writing and arithmetic. He ob-
served the country around him and learned many of the
secrets of Nature.

Two whole years passed. Max should now have been
ready for High School! He wanted very much to go to
Yauco, but in the first place he had no money. In the
second place it was nearly ten kilometers or about six
miles, and there was no road over the mountains. Had
there been a road, this ambitious boy would have walked
to school, perhaps riding part of the way in some kind
person’s cart or truck.

The boy was now tall and strong. He was not hand-
some, for his rugged outdoor life did nothing to enhance
physical beauty. His feet, which were always bare, were
large, and his toes spread far apart because they had never
been pinched together by shoes. His skin was brown
from his constant exposure to the tropical sun. His hair
was black and shaggy, for he seldom had it cut and then
only by his father, who was by no means a barber. His
hands were large like his feet, and his finger nails were
broken. Some boys, as we say, seem to be “all hands
and feet.” But when they grow up, they are usually fine,
strong men,
TIMID MAX 147

Max's clothes were scant, consisting of a pair of faded
tan trousers and a checked gingham shirt. These gar-
ments always looked too small for him because he grew so
fast. He sometimes wore a large, native-straw hat, with
the uncut straw protruding around the brim, making a
kind of wide fringe. But for all his queer, countrified
appearance, Max Flores possessed two extremely attrac-
tive characteristics. His brown eyes were wide open with
kindliness for everyone he looked upon. And people
often remarked that one would have to walk miles to meet
a more pleasant smile than his. The boy seldom spoke,
for he was very timid—but he was never too timid to
lend a helping hand where one was needed.

Max worked cheerfully enough, assisting his father to
pick coffee, though being but a child he was paid no wage.
His father could never save any money, for he had five
other small children. Tt was certainly true that the only
thing Max’s mother had left him was a fine name. Max
often thought about school, but the possibilities of attend-
ing seemed as elusive as a dream.

Then, one day, there was much excited talk among the
coffee-pickers about a gran camino—a new highway which
was being built from Yauco and which was eventually
to reach the distant town of Lares.

“Already it is within five or six kilometers of this
region!” they exclaimed. ‘Apparently its course is to
follow our rough mountain trail. In that case it will run
directly past your house, friend Flores.”

Max’s heart leaped for joy. “Oh, oh!” he thought.
“I shall go to help build that road. How I will work that
they may finish it all the sooner! Then I can go to the
school in Yauco!”
148 TALES OF BORINQUEN

The very next day he set off along the mountain trail
to find the road, which was creeping like some beneficent,
living thing over the hills towards his home. After walk-
ing about four miles he saw a gang of workmen dressed
in rough blue uniforms. There was a steam roller puff-
ing forth clouds of vapor. And like a miraculous bless-
ing, behind these workers the finished road stretched
smooth and beautiful until it disappeared in an alluring
manner around a curve of the mountainside, from whose
living rock it was being literally carved.

Several men who were not in uniform seemed to be
the engineers and foreman. As Max approached one
of these men, his heart beat so fast that it seemed to leap
into his throat. He could not utter a word and stood
quite dumb, his face very red.

The foreman regarded the speechless boy in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” he asked smiling.

Then Max managed to smile also—that broad, friendly
smile which always pleased everyone who met him. “I
want to help build this road,” he answered simply.

“That is very kind of you,” replied the foreman, who
thought the boy must be joking. “However, don’t you
understand that these workers are all prisoners? That is
the economical way the government builds its roads. We
do not hire any other labor and only pay these men a few
cents a day.”

Poor Max was so disappointed that he momentarily
wished he might be put in jail! “If I were only a pris-
oner,” he thought, “I would surely work harder and
faster than these fellows! But of course they cannot
possibly want the road as I want it,” he reasoned. He
TIMID MAX 149

at once put aside the ignoble idea of becoming a prisoner
and began to think what he might do.

In a few minutes Max summoned his courage once
more and went back to the foreman. “Is there nothing
at all I can do?” he pleaded.

The foreman regarded this persistent boy impatiently.
But when he saw the earnest expression on Max's face,
he asked kindly: “Why are you so anxious to help?”

Max told him. The foreman looked at the poor moun-
tain lad with great respect for his worthy ambition.
“What is your name?” he then asked.

“Maximiliano.”

“What?”

“Maximiliano. Oh, I know, Sefior, that it is a very
long name. But my mother gave it to me because I was
a poor boy.”

“But I do not understand.”

“She said that if I had a fine name I might be inspired
to do great things in order to be worthy of it,” explained
Max simply. “But you don’t have to pronounce all of it
each time you speak to me, Seflor,” he added smiling.
“Everyone calls me just plain ‘Max.’ ”

“Well, Max,” said his new friend, “I should certainly
like to help you. Let me see... . For one thing, it is
very hot working here in the sun. Suppose from time
to time you bring us some fresh water to drink. We
might pay you a little for that service.”

“Oh, thank you, Sefior, I will surely do that!” cried
Max. “I would even be glad to do it for nothing.”

“But you will need money if you go to school. You
will have to buy pencils, paper, and so forth, even though
150 TALES OF BORINQUEN

the school does furnish the books. And then, also, in
town you will need better clothes and some shoes.”

Max stared down at his meager attire and realized this
to be true. Then, in apparent desire to hasten the happy
day, the grateful boy ran off at once to look for some
water. He felt that he would willingly carry it for miles
if necessary. The foreman was very pleased when Max
came back with a large canful of sparkling cold water.
That day he earned nine cents.

The next morning Max had an idea. He went into
the groves where sweet wild oranges and rich bananas
grew to shade the coffee bushes. For nine cents he was
able to buy a large basketful of ripe oranges and bananas.
He covered these carefully with several layers of green
banana leaves still dripping wet and cool with dew. He
put the basket on his head and set off over the mountains.

When he reached the road-builders, he offered this
delicious fruit for sale. How tempting it looked to the
hot workers! They reached into their pockets for their
hard-earned pennies. That day the industrious boy
earned thirty-five cents—twenty-five for his fruit and
ten for water! On a nine-cent investment he had made
sixteen cents profit. He smiled so much that he had
everyone else smiling. :

“It is pleasant to have such a happy, good-natured boy
around,” said Max's friend, the foreman, to one of his
assistants. “Let us aid him all we can, for he is ambitious
to go to school. The coming of this road is like the real-
ization of a wonderful dream to him.”

So from time to time the men had Max run errands,
and he earned a few cents more.

Every day he came to the road. What joy it gave him
TIMID MAX 151

to see it push slowly forward, bringing all its myriad
benefits to the dwellers of this obscure mountain region!

It was six months before the highway reached the home
of Sefior Flores. In that time Max, by his diligence,
managed to earn forty dollars! - But he had not been able
to save that sum because one of his brothers had broken
his arm. The poor father had had to borrow fifteen dol-
lars from Max, in order to have an X-ray picture taken
in town and to have the arm set.

But Max was supremely happy. To him the road was
now a path which led straight to the goal of his ambition
—school! He did not worry because he had so little
money. Indeed, twenty-five dollars seemed to him a
magnificent sum. “It will be more than enough!’ he
thought. “I shall not need many things. Just think, I
shall be learning, mamita,” he said, as though his mother
were close beside him, “and you will be happy.”

The day that Max started off to school in Yauco was
a real event. He had to leave very, very early in the
morning in order to walk the long distance. His poor
clothes were extremely clean, having been mended, washed,
and neatly ironed by a friendly neighbor. Of course he
had no shoes as yet, but in his pocket were three dollars
of his precious money, in pennies and nickels. With this
he intended to buy all that he needed in Yauco. He felt
very proud as his pocket sagged with the weight of his
riches. On his head was a new straw hat which another
neighbor had given him in honor of the occasion. Under
it his wet, black hair was shining and combed flat to his
head. His face was so clean it glistened, and his smile
had never been more radiant. Yes, Max still smiled,
152 TALES OF BORINQUEN

even though his timid heart was already beating rapidly,
as he thought of the strange and difficult ordeals he must
undergo that day without encouragement or aid from any-
one.

(Oh, brave Max, if you had guessed what lay in store
for you! But, even so, you would have gone on, for
yours is one of those splendid natures, which knows not
the words, “Turn back.”)

So Max started off down the road. He was not hand-
some—in fact he was quite homely. His patched and
shrunken clothes were really funny upon his tall and awk-
ward frame. But in spite of this, there was something
truly noble in his appearance as he started out all alone to
face the world. His father, brothers and sisters, several
neighbors, the foreman, and all of the workmen on the
road, which now reached right up to his house, gathered
to see him depart. He was followed by many cheers, and
he waved his hand until a bend in the highway hid his
faithful friends from sight.

The foreman, who had first befriended Max, looked
after the boy with tears in his eyes. “That,” said he
solemnly to the small crowd, “is the bravest thing I have
ever seen anyone do. Many of us have heard of a great
hero named Abraham Lincoln. All the world admires
that noble man. Yet he was just such a poor, ambitious
boy as our own Max. Without experience but with an un-
conquerable ambition urging him on, our boy is willing to
meet all the difficulties which await him. Let us pray
for his success; for all of us, who have lived longer,
know the hardships which he will have to endure. And,”
he added, turning to his workmen, hoping to teach those
unfortunate men a lesson, “let us hasten the construction
TIMID MAX 153

 

 

The road builders.

of this road. You have just witnessed what great good
it can do. The humble departure of Max Flores for
school is symbolic. It speaks of the splendid worth of
this work which our government is doing for Porto
Rico!” The prisoners then fell to their labors with a
better will than they had ever shown before, and among
them there was many an eye furtively wiped upon a coarse
blue sleeve, and many a heart silently resolving better
things.

The assembled neighbors were deeply impressed and
went thoughtfully to their homes. ‘‘Angelina had high
hopes for her eldest son,” they said among themselves.
“It seems likely that he will not fail her. We may yet
154 TALES OF BORINQUEN

see the day when we shall be proud to call Maximiliano
Flores our friend!”

Juan Flores, the father, performed his humble tasks
that day, his head held high with pride. His son was the
first who had ever gone out from that region to seek a
higher education. But for all his pride, his heart ached,
for he feared what might befall his boy. . . .

As Max walked along the new-made road he whistled
partly for joy, and partly to keep up his courage. For
now that the mountain lad had really started alone on his
adventure, his shy heart shrank before what was to come.

Showers fall with great force and abruptness in the
mountains. Suddenly, as Max walked briskly along, it
began to rain. His dismay was intense, for now he would
have to enter the big, strange school with his scanty
clothes dripping wet. He looked quickly around for a
shelter but could see none. However, fortunately for
him, there was a large banana plantation beside the road.
Hastily he entered it and stripped off an enormous new
banana leaf, which had not yet been torn to ribbons by
the wind. This he held over his head, hat and all. It
covered his shoulders and trailed downward behind. The
rain pelted with a noise like a shower of pebbles on the
firm, strong leaf. But Max was perfectly protected!

“;Qué hay, Max? Come and play with us!” shouted
a group of boys who stood out of the rain under a thick
mango tree, a little further down the road.

“I can’t!” cried Max. “I'm on my way to school!”

“Where?” they asked in astonishment. They, too, had
gone as far as the sixth grade but they had simply taken
it for granted that their cducation was finished. They
had neither the imagination nor the ambition of their
TIMID MAX 155

friend Max. After he had passed on out of sight, they
began talking about school. He had put a new and ad-
mirable idea into their heads. “We play all of the time,”
said one of them. “If Max can go to school, why cannot
we go?”

Max had already helped many people that morning by
his starting off to school. But he guessed nothing of
this and continued hastily through the rain towards Yauco,
fearing that he might be late.

When he was about halfway to the town, he came upon
a pitiful sight. There in the pouring rain stood an old,
white-haired man beside a horse and cart. * He had evi-
dently been taking a load of vegetables to the market, but
one of the heavy wheels of his cart had come off. He
was not strong enough to lift it, and he now stood staring
at it in the utmost discouragement.

“Good day, Seflor,” said Max respectfully. “You
seem to be in trouble.”

“Yes, my boy,” quavered the old man. “You see what
has happened! Alas, my strength is not sufficient to re-
pair the damage, and in the meantime I am getting wet.
Every drop of rain is like a sword-thrust, starting the
rheumatism in my poor, feeble bones.”

“Here,” said Max at once, “take this banana leaf. It
will protect you.”

“Thank you, thank you, hijo mio; but if 1 take your
leaf then you will get wet.”

“That 1s nothing,” replied Max, insisting that the old
man put the leaf over his head. Then without another
word Max began to unload the vegetables from the cart.
When it was empty, he bent and put his strong, young
shoulder under it and was able to lift its weight. The
156 TALES OF BORINQUEN

old man managed to slip the wheel into place on the axle.
where Max secured it with a tough wooden peg.

“There!” he exclaimed. “That ought to hold until
you arrive in Yauco.” He hastily piled the vegetables
into the cart again, while the grateful old man thanked
him repeatedly.

“/No es nada! Tt is nothing!” declared Max much
embarrassed by all this praise. “Why,” he said, glancing
up in surprise, ‘the sun has come out! Soon you will
be warm and dry!” Then he noted how high the sun was
in the sky and realized that it must be getting late. His
task being finished, he smiled goodby and hastened off.

“Where are you going?” called the old man.

“To school in Yauco,” answered Max and added, “for
the first time!”

His hearer thought he had never heard a happier voice.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I'm so sorry, for now I have
made you late!”

“It is all right, Sefior, do not think of it again!” shouted
the unselfish boy, as he disappeared around a sharp turn
in the road.

The old man lifted his eyes to heaven. “God bless
that boy,” he said reverently. “May good fortune and
success be his!”

Now Max was half-walking, half-running in order to
be at school on time. He was near the town; in fact, he
had had several glimpses of it in the valley below as he
followed the course of the winding road.

Ahead of him Max saw a woman, bent low under a
huge bunch of fagots which she carried on her head.
To the boy there was nothing unusual in this sight. He
had seen his own mother carry fagots in the same way.
TIMID MAX 157

Most of the women he knew gathered them for their fires.

Hence Max would have passed this woman without
paying any special attention to her, had he not heard her
groan. That sound went straight to his sympathetic
heart.

“Good morning, Sefiora, are you ill?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “And furthermore 1 must carry
this heavy wood all the way to Yauco.”

“Let me help you,” offered Max simply.

“The blessings of the Virgin be upon you, my boy!”
murmured the grateful woman, as Max transferred the
cumbersome burden from her weary head to his own.

As they walked along, he asked: “Where is your
home, Senora ?”’

“In the hills,” she replied. “I am carrying this wood
to Yauco, to try to sell it.”

Sell 117” echoed Max, in surprise. He knew she
would have a hard time doing that.

“Oh, I know, my boy, that wood is plentiful, and
people will not buy it, or if they do, they will not pay
much. But I am desperate. I am a widow, and my
child lies back there sick with fever. I must have money
for medicine’ and for milk. 1 cannot beg, can 1? 1
have nothing else in the world but the wood to sell!”

Max heard her with deep pity. Only too well did this
young boy know of the struggles and hardships of life!
His big, rough hand stole into his pocket, where his fin-
gers encountered his precious pennies and nickels.

“How—how much would you need, Sefiora?” he asked
trembling.

“Two dollars at least!”

Max’s heart sank. That meant no shoes, no new
158 TALES OF BORINQUEN

clothes, no lunch even, if he were to buy notebooks, pen-
cils, and other necessary school supplies. Still, he could
not spend his whole morning walking about with this
poor woman while she tried to sell her firewood, for he
must get to school. Tt took only a moment for him to
decide.

“Sefiora,” he said, “I am on my way to school. As
this is my first day, I should not like to be late. I have
only three dollars, but I—I can let you have half of it.
No—do not say that,” he urged, as she began to declare
that she could not accept his money. “You must take it!
I understand your troubles. I—I will have plenty of
money left!” he insisted so that she would not refuse.

At last the poor woman, with tears streaming down
her face, accepted the gift. ‘Bless you, bless you!” she
said again and again. Max's face was flushed with em-
barrassment, as he counted a dollar and a half of his small
coins into her thin, shaking hand.

“I hope your child will recover,” he said, as he hurried
away.

“God is kind,” called the woman, “and after such a
noble deed as yours, my child must certainly grow well!”

The thankful woman begged heaven to bless and pros-
per the strange lad who had helped her so materially.

After this the sun seemed to shine with a new bril-
liance, and the morning was filled with a happy light.

At last Max found himself running through the streets
of Yauco. He had been there only twice before, but he
knew where the school building was. He felt sure now
that he was late, but it could not be helped. Perhaps the
teacher would not scold him, since it was his first day.
Max was now passing through the better part of the town,
TIMID MAX 159

near the principal plaza. Suddenly an automobile came
speeding around a corner, without sounding its klaxon.

At the same instant a little girl prettily dressed left the
side of her nursemaid and stepped off the sidewalk. The
maid screamed. Max had no time to shout. He in-
stantly hurled himself into the street and caught the be-
wildered child, both of them falling flat in the dust, while
the wheels of the passing automobile just grazed the bot-
toms of his feet as it swerved sharply, went over the side-
walk, and crashed against the balcony of a large house!

Several people witnessed his heroic deed. A crowd im-
mediately gathered, attracted by the loud noise and pierc-
ing cries of the maid. Out of the big house rushed a
man and a woman, their faces stricken as they recognized
the hysterical servant girl.

“Adelita? Adelita?”’ they moaned in terror.

“She is all right! She is safe!” cried a dozen people.
“This brave boy has saved her from being run over!”

But when the people tried to point out Max to the over-
joyed parents, he was nowhere to be seen.

A moment ago he had been there, dusty and somewhat
stunned by the shock. Now he was gone. Little Ade-
lita, weeping with fright and covered with dirt, remained
alone. There was no one, it seemed, for the rich Sefior
Ortiz and his wife to thank for the miraculous saving of
their only, beloved child.

For modest Max, under cover of the excitement, had
slipped away. He was much too timid to stay and be
praised. Besides, every minute was precious now, if he
were to get to school at all!

Finally he arrived, breathless and disheveled, before the
building. Grand and white it loomed, far more mag-
160 TALES OF BORINQUEN

nificent than humble Max remembered it. And now the
brave boy, who had just saved a life, hesitated. He, who
had not feared death, stood trembling before the school-
house! After all his struggles to reach it, he was afraid
to go in. It was so quiet there, with all the children
busily working inside. His worst fears were realized—
he was late! The more Max gazed up at the imposing

 

Plaza Washington, which Max passed on his way to the
school building.

building, the smaller he felt. It was fully ten minutes
before he could summon enough courage to enter. For-
tunately for him the hall was entirely empty. Though
he could hear the sound of pupils reciting and teachers
talking in the various classrooms, he could not see a soul.
How thankful he was! But the next moment he was
more afraid than ever. He clutched his big straw hat
nervously in his hands. Where should he go? How
could he ever find the person he wanted in this huge, ter-
rifying place?
TIMID MAX 161

Suddenly his eye fell upon a white placard which hung
on a door at the far end of the hall. Gratefully he read:
“Principal’s Office.”

He began to walk in that direction. The tile floor of
the hall had just been mopped. Glancing behind him,
Max saw to his extreme dismay that his bare, dusty feet
were leaving large and awful tracks on the glistening, wet
floor. He began to take long leaps, like a kangaroo, in
order to leave fewer footprints. This lunging, of course,
gave him a very grotesque appearance. What, then, were
the poor boy’s feelings, when he suddenly looked up and
saw a beautiful lady standing in the doorway of the prin-
cipal’s office, staring in surprise at his queer actions.

Max stopped so sharply that he slipped on the wet floor
and nearly fell. This only added to his confusion. No
face could ever be redder than his was, as he speechlessly
confronted the principal of the Yauco School. At first
the principal was going to scold him, for she believed he
was merely a mischievous boy playing a prank. But
when she saw his consternation, she realized at once that
before her stood a poor country lad, come for the first
time to the town school. She had had experience with
just such cases, so she invited him into her office, where
she was so kind and understanding that poor Max was
sure she must be an angel in disguise. Without knowing
quite how, he found himself talking and telling her of his
ambitions. He exhibited his treasured report card, which
showed that he had finished the sixth grade with excellent
marks to his credit.

“But you are somewhat old to enter the seventh grade,
are you not?” asked the principal.

“I had to wait two and a half years before I could
162 TALES OF BORINQUEN

come,” answered Max, unaware of the pathos of his
simple reply.

“Very well,” said the principal. “I shall take you to
your room. Your teacher will tell you what texts and
notebooks you need.”

Max knew that he now faced the hardest ordeal of all
—entering the schoolroom before the eyes of the boys and
girls who were to be his future classmates. How lonely
and strange he felt at that moment! He wished he might
suddenly disappear into the air, as he followed the prin-
cipal down the corridor.

But nothing like that happened, and all at once the prin-
cipal entered a room. Then Max found himself standing
alone in the doorway, with at least a thousand (he was
sure of this) eyes fixed upon him!

“Miss Meléndez,” he heard the principal say, as though
she were speaking a long way off, “here is a new pupil.
Please enroll him, and tell him what books he will need.”

Now, because the principal was in the room, no one
dared to laugh. But some of those seventh-grade pupils
nearly choked in their efforts not to do so. For really,
as Max stood there, he was a startling sight. He was
larger than any other child in the room. His clothes,
which were still damp and shapeless from the rain, were
caked with dust and dirt from his recent fall in the street.
His hair, which he had combed so carefully, was rumpled.
His face was no longer clean. And in his hand he held
that big fringed straw hat. No other boy or girl in
Yauco wore such a hat to school. Well, it certainly was
as good as a moving-picture comedy to have such a boy
come to join their class.

Miss Meléndez herself stared in considerable astonish-
TIMID MAX 163

ment at her new pupil. Neither she nor the children
could appreciate at that moment the good heart or the in-
telligent brain beneath the amusing exterior of timid Max.
No sooner had the principal left than a wave of laughter
swept over the room.

“Silence!” ordered the teacher at once. She led Max
to a vacant seat near the back of the room. He sank into
it gratefully, wishing it could obscure him entirely. The
teacher, catching the agonized look in his eyes, hastened
to continue the lesson, that the other pupils’ attention
might be distracted from him.

Max looked around miserably. As far as he could see,
everyone in the room had shoes but himself. Oh, why
had he not bought his shoes before coming to school?
But he had been so eager to begin his studies that he had
forgotten all about buying anything. Besides, as he now
remembered, he had not sufficient money.

Max observed that all the children had good clothes,
and also that each one except himself had a book. And
then, he discovered that he was the only boy in the room
who had a hat! Simple as this fact was, it seemed ter-
rible to Max during that moment when the smallest thing
was magnified for him far beyond its real importance.
Hastily he put his hat out of sight under the desk and felt
a little better. Now he saw that the pupils were no longer
looking at him but were going on with their lesson. He
began to listen with interest.

It was an arithmetic class. Thanks to Max’s studying
at home, he understood perfectly what they were talking
about.

At length the teacher submitted a problem which ap-
parently no one could solve, for not a hand was raised.
164 TALES OF BORINQUEN

To his delight Max found that he knew the answer.
Without a moment's thought beyond that fact; he raised
his big, brown hand high in the air.

The teacher regarded him in surprise. It was not us-
ual for a new pupil to comprehend so soon. He seemed
to be entirely recovered from his embarrassment.

“All right, you may answer—"' She paused. She
had forgotten to ask his name.

“What is your name?”

The other boys and girls turned in their seats to look
at him. Suddenly Max realized what he had done. In
his eagerness to reply to the question he had once more
called down on himself the one thing in the world he most
wished to avoid—the concentrated attention of his class-
mates. Instantly all power of speech left him.

“Stand up, please,” he heard the teacher saying.

Somehow he struggled to his feet. He felt that his
face must be burning, it was so hot.

“I asked you what your name is,” repeated Miss Me-
léndez kindly, :

Max made a tremendous effort. “Maximiliano!” he
hurst out and the next moment could have bitten off his
tongue; for upon hearing the long and unusual name, all
control left the class, and a roar of laughter swept through
the room.

Why, oh, why had he answered thus? Why had he
not said simply “Max.” No one could laugh at that.
Then, suddenly at this, the lowest depth of his misery,
there came to him a comforting thought of his mother.
Why should he be ashamed of his name? She had given
it to him proudly, and proudly he must bear it. No one
should laugh at it, if he could prevent it. With this
TIMID MAX 165

beautiful thought of his mother came peace and calmness.
After all, these were only boys and girls like himself.
He must not be afraid of them. And he must not fail!
He had come for the education he had always dreamed
about. He could not go home in defeat. So now he
lifted his head firmly, and as he replied there was some-
thing in his voice which made the others cease laughing.

“My name,” he said clearly, “is Maximiliano Flores.
But,” he added, “everyone calls me ‘Max.’” With that
he smiled his splendid smile, and the teacher, won by it,
smiled back at him. At that moment she began to realize
that here was no ordinary boy.

“Now you may answer my question.” She repeated it.

Then the poor country lad clearly and correctly solved
the difficult problem which no one else in the class had
understood! He sat down amid respectful silence, and
the lesson proceeded.

Finally the last period of the morning session arrived.
It was devoted to citizenship. For the benefit of Max,
the teacher briefly explained that this was “Good Deed
Week.”

“Each boy and girl is trying to do at least one good
deed every day,” she said. “For each good deed, a white
star is placed after the name of the proper person on the
Honor Roll.” She pointed to a list of names on the
blackboard. Each one had several white stars after it.

The teacher went to the blackboard and wrote Max's
name. ~ Maximiliano Flores. There it was, the very
last one. How lonely it looked away at the end of the
list, with no white stars at all beside it!

“If a child does a good deed every day in the week, he
will have a red star after his name.”
166 TALES OF BORINQUEN

As Miss Meléndez said this, the children who had three
stars after their names (for this was Thursday morning)
sat up and looked very virtuous. Poor Max! There
was no chance now for him to get a red star.

“And,” continued the teacher, “the whole school is in
the contest. At the end of the week, the child who has
done the best and most admirable deeds will be awarded
a gold star in the presence of all the students and
teachers!”

Max trembled. How wonderful it would be to win a
shining gold star! But of course such a lowly boy as he
could never hope for such glory. He looked shyly
around him, wondering if any boy in that room would be
awarded the gold star. He was sure that he would ad-
mire such a boy extremely.

Now the teacher had begun to ask each child in turn, up
and down the rows, to stand up and tell what good deed
he or she had done.

“Maria,” she called.

A little girl stood up. “I took care of my baby sister
for two hours,” she responded.

Miss Meléndez put a white star after the girl's name.
“Next,” she said.

A boy arose. “I helped my father in the store.”

Another white star.

#Next.)

“I cooked: supper last night for mother,” said a small
girl.

“T took some flowers to a sick woman in the hospital,”
replied the next girl.

“I pulled the weeds out of the garden,’
boy who sat behind her.

’

responded the
TIMID MAX 167

And so it went up and down the rows, each child stat-
ing his or her good deed. One white star after another
was added to the list on the blackboard. Everyone had
a new star, except five children who said they had tried to
find a good deed to perform but had not been successful.
They each looked a bit sheepish as they admitted their
failure, and the other pupils giggled and smiled.

With terror Max saw the question drawing nearer and
nearer to him. Now the boy in front of him was answer-
ing. His turn would be next. Would the teacher call
on him, or would she let him go this time because he was
a new boy? Max felt his hands grow cold and moist.
He tried to think of something to answer, if she should
call on him. He heard the boy in front say he had driven
the cow to ‘pasture for his mother. Max thought des-
perately and could not recall any good deed he had done.
He had been so busy preparing to come to school the day
before that he feared he had not helped anybody. Every-
one had been helping him instead. Oh, how he hoped
Miss Meléndez would pass him by!

But no! The boy in front had finished. He was sit-
ting down. Now, now—he heard Miss Meléndez say-
ing, “Max Flores.” He tried to rise and felt he could not
move. Again to his horror he saw all the curious faces
turned in his direction and all the laughing eyes fixed
upon him.

“Have you not perhaps done some good deed in the
past week, Max, so that I can put just one white star after
your name?”

How Max wished to answer! His face began to burn,
but still he said nothing. Then to his complete dismay
he heard the others begin to laugh once more.
168 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“Of course,” they thought, “this stupid country boy has
done no good deed. Ha! Ha!”

Miss Meléndez rapped for silence. She observed the
color of Max's face and mistook his timidity and embar-
rassment for shame that he had no good deed to report.

“That is all right, Max,” she reassured him kindly.
“Of course, since you did not know about the contest you
could not be expected to have performed any especially
good deed. Now that you do know about it, tomorrow
you will be able to report with the others.”

Max was so relieved that he trembled with gratitude at
her words. Still, he was very sorry he had not been able
to say anything ; he desired to make a pleasant impression
on his classmates, for he wanted them to be his friends
Now he felt that he stood very low in their estimation.
How he wished he had helped his father pick coffee yes-
terday! True he had carried water to the road workers,
but he had received money for that, so it could not count.
He resolved that he would have something really fine to
report on the morrow.

Finally that interminable morning session ended. The
bell sounded for the noon recess.

“This afternoon I shall have your books for you,
Max,” said Miss Meléndez, as the class formed in line to
march out. “Then I shall also tell you what notebooks
and other materials you will need.”

Somewhere a piano began to play—the first one Max
had ever heard. His ears were so charmed by the melo--
dious sounds that he forgot to move his feet. He had to
run to catch up with the line. Everything he did seemed
to be wrong. No wonder, he thought, that the others
made fun of him. He was surely stupid and awkward.
TIMID MAX 169

He must keep his mind on the things about him and be
observant, so as to avoid making these silly mistakes.
How ashamed he was of his bare feet! IHe was sure
everyone noticed them and despised him for not wearing
shoes.

Now all the children were out of the building, standing
in formation on the wide pavement. Max was aston-
ished at the vast number of boys and girls. Beside each
class was its teacher. The principal stood on the school
steps, ready to give the signal for dismissal. Before she
could do this, however, a crowd of people hastily ap-
proached the schoolhouse.

An agitated man rushed up to the principal. “Wait a
moment,” he cried, “before you dismiss the children!”

“Why, Seftor Ortiz, what is the matter?” asked the
principal.

Then Mr. Ortiz told her.

Every boy and girl was now quite still, trying to hear
what was being said. “Children,” said their principal
gravely, “Senior Ortiz tells me that this morning a very
brave boy saved his little daughter Adelita from being run
over by an automobile. The boy disappeared. They
have been looking for him everywhere. They believe he
must be in school. So they have come here because they
wish to thank and reward him. If the boy who saved
Seftor Ortiz’s daughter is present, let him step forth.”

A murmur of excitement rose in the throng. Then,
silence. Heads turned this way and that to see who
would step forward—to see who among them had done
this wonderful thing. But no one stepped forth.

For a full minute they waited.

Then Sefior Ortiz spoke: “I did not see the boy; but,
170 TALES OF BORINQUEN

please, will he not make himself known, so that I may
thank him?” The grateful father had tears in his eyes.
All of the children were deeply impressed. Each one of
them fervently wished that he or she had done this thing.
Why, surely, that was the very best of all Good Deeds!
Without doubt the boy who had done it would be the
winner of the Gold Star!

 

 

 

“Now all the children were out of the building . . .

Still no one claimed the waiting honor. Surely, then,
it was no boy of the school, for who would hesitate a mo-
ment to say that he had acted so heroically ?

“Please,” said the principal, “if the boy who saved
Adelita’s life is present, let him speak. It is for the
honor of the whole school !”

Still no one spoke.

Now one of the men who had witnessed the brave deed
began to walk up and down the long lines of children to
see if he could find the right boy. In a panic Max saw
TIMID MAX 171

him coming. Oh, he could never stand up before the
whole school. Never! Once more, then, he sought to
steal away unnoticed.

But he was too late.

His movement fixed upon him the attention of the
seeker. “There!” cried the man in triumph. “There is
the very boy!” and he pointed directly at Max.

With what complete and gasping astonishment did the
school view the hero. How was it possible that this odd
country boy, homely, poor, timid, could be the one?

But the grateful parents of Adelita did not stop to take
note of appearances. They rushed up to Max, followed
by the whole crowd of townspeople. The tearful mother
even kissed him in full sight of everyone. Max stood
there without a single word, completely overwhelmed.

Then suddenly he realized that all was silence and that
someone was speaking. It was the principal.

“This,” she said solemnly, “is a momentous occasion.
To think that a country boy has so distinguished himself
on his first day at school! Everyone knows that this is
‘Good Deed Week.” Surely to save a life at the risk of
one’s own is the greatest of all good deeds. So I am go-
ing to suggest that here and now in the presence of all,
without waiting until tomorrow, the Gold Star be awarded
to our bravest, most modest, and worthiest student,
Maximiliano Flores.” :

The grand and impressive name had come into its own
at last, and Max’s mother was justified in her choice.
Not a smile of amusement was visible as the principal ut-
tered it; but the air was rent with cheer upon cheer of the
wildest enthusiasm, as the ranks of applauding children
broke up, and crowds of admiring people closed in on
172 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Max. He was quickly lifted on to his classmates’ shoul-
ders, where, high above the throng, he sat and smiled in
his happiness. Now everyone would be friendly with
him, he felt sure. This seemed to him the finest thing
of all. He did not consider himself a hero for having
saved the child's life. He believed he had simply done
what anyone else would have done at that dreadful mo-
ment.

Now while Max rode aloft on his schoolmates’ shoul-
ders, people had been arriving from all directions attracted
by the cheering children. Among these was an old man
driving a cart.

“What has happened?” he asked of another man.

He was soon told. Then he caught sight of Max. A
look of great surprise and keen delight appeared on his
face. He said a few words to the man.

“What?” cried the other incredulously. Then, “Wait
a moment!" he shouted. He pushed his way through the
crowd and said something to the principal. She re-
garded him dazedly. Then she vigorously rang the bell
she held in her hand.

Silence fell over the gathering. What new thing was
in store? They became aware that an old man was stand-
ing up in a cart, making an animated speech.

“And that brave boy came along,” he was shouting,
“and to protect me from the rain he gave me the banana
leaf he had picked to cover himself. Then, though he
was eager to arrive at school, for it was his first day, he
removed all the heavy vegetables from my broken cart,
mended it, and reloaded it. And so I was able to come
to the market.” At this point his audience once more be-
gan to applaud, but he silenced them with upraised hand.
TIMID MAX 173

“There is more,” he said. “Let me tell you, my friends,
what happened afterwards: if this boy had not helped
me, I would not have arrived in time to meet the man who
is going to build the new railway for hauling sugar cane.
Had I not met him this morning, he would have pur-
chased the right to build it across the land of another man.
As it is, IT reached here just in time to sell him the right-
of-way across my tiny farm. Thus, I, a poor old man,
and my feeble wife will have enough for our humble needs
for the rest of our days! And all of it, my friends, all of
it I owe to that modest and unselfish boy!” And he
pointed his old, shaking hand directly at Max!

Then pandemonium did indeed break out. Such thrill-
ing scenes had not been witnessed in that town for many
a day.

And when Sefior Ortiz, a very rich man, announced
that he was going to give a reward to Max which would
be sufficient to send him to school for a long time, you
can imagine the rejoicing.

In the afternoon there was so much excitement in the
school that lessons were learned and recited with diffi-
culty. And when the closing hour arrived, a large num-
ber of Max’s new and enthusiastic friends decided to es-
cort him part of the way to his distant home.

Out of the town they went, shouting with joy and high
spirits all the way. After they had gone a short distance
into the country, they saw a woman, who had been sitting
by the roadside, rise and hasten towards Max.

“1 have heen waiting,” she cried, “to thank you.
With the money that you gave me I bought the medicine.
Already the fever has nearly left my child. He has
smiled at me for the first time in many days.”
174 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“Please, Sefiora, say no more about it,” begged Max.

But his schoolmates had heard. Once more they had
occasion to laud him, and they did it with such a will that
the mountains thereabouts echoed and reéchoed with their
cheers.

Finally, however, they reluctantly turned back to the
town, and Max proceeded contentedly towards his home.
The glow of the sunset suffused the sky and shone on the
boy’s face, transforming it. He was still confused by all
the day’s unexpected events, but two thoughts remained
supreme: with the money from the reward he would be
able to help his brothers and sisters; and now at last he
was enrolled as a pupil in the Yauco School! How he
intended to study! Why, he was going to learn by heart
every word between the covers of the precious new books
which he carried so carefully under his arm!

At last Max came in sight of his home. There were
his father, his brothers and sisters, his neighbors, the
workmen, and the foreman all gathered, awaiting his re-
turn. He waved to them gladly. They answered with
animated manifestations of welcome and advanced to
meet their returning friend. How happy they were to
observe that his face was happy; for all day they had
secretly feared that something might occur to make their
ambitious Max return in disappointment or even in de-
feat!

But no! he was returning joyously. :

“Hello, Max! How was school?” shouted the fore-
man from afar.

“Fine!” called Max smiling broadly.

“And what did you learn today?” they all asked
TIMID MAX 175

eagerly, crowding around him and gazing at him fondly
and proudly.

Max looked about into the faces of these, his first
faithful friends. Even the prisoners were smiling and
somehow looked better men.

“I learned,” replied this modest boy whose gold star
no one had yet observed, “that school is a wonderful
place, and that everyone in it is kind and good!”

EXOTICS

I stood atop a jagged coral rock

And ate my fill of blood-red tangerines

And cast their orange rinds into a sea
as blue as indigo. .

I sat beneath a Malay-apple tree
And gazed up through its dome of fairy fire
And idly counted love upon the petals

of a passion flower. . . .

I reached a chapel on a cone-shaped hill

And watched the grave-lights burn on All Souls’ Eve

And saw the pale-green moon peer like a dead face
through a Spanish arch. . . .

All these exotic things and many more

I hold against a time when far away

I may be kept a prisoner by a window
streaming dismal rain.
THREE SONNETS

(Commemorating the immortal flight of Colonel Charles A.
Lindbergh from New York to Paris in his monoplane,
the “Spirit of St. Louis,” May 20-21, 1927, and
in appreciation of his visit to Porto Rico,
February 2—4, 1028.)

VISION

Not any prophets earth would own but slays

Them heedlessly, till one more bold, more brave

Than other men defies the known and plays

For wondrous stakes with chance and scorns the grave: . . .
The soul-sick Genoese his ardent plea

In many jeering old-world cities made,

Till grudging aid was doled by Spain and he

Alone of men faced Westward unafraid.

Nor do the years obliterate mistrust,

For when a valiant new-world youth would scale

The heights to justify Columbus’ dust,

And Eastward through the air reblaze his trail,

This skeptic world still doubts such dreams and cries,
Desist! Tis only caution that is wise.

ACHIEVEMENT

The bravest man is he who dares to roam

Through realms unknown where mystic dangers reign,

While all his timid brothers rest at home

And thank themselves that they, at least, are sane. . .
176
THREE SONNETS 177

Thus did the fearless Genoese sail on,

Firm in his faith when still to hope was hard,

Until one far-famed golden tropic dawn

His eyes beheld their glorious reward!

And thus the matchless youth from out the west,
Above the cold gray sea to meet the day,

Winged in his silver ship, alone, abreast

Of death, and proved that men can transcend clay!
Then o’er these victors’ brows, with wildest praise,
The world made haste to fling its fresh-plucked bays.

GLORY

Acclaim is short of breath, and life must fade—
The lauded Genoese expired in chains;

And though the fair-haired victor now is made
A god by all mankind, the truth remains

That new events and heroes will appear

To fascinate and sojourn in our hearts.

Yet, his exploit can never wane ; its sphere

Is fixed, exalted far above the smarts

And rivalries of earth—among the stars!

He and the Genoese and all their kind

By such inspired deeds lay low those bars
Which have since life began confined Man’s mind. . . .
Their glory is so radiant, so sublime,

It mocks at darkness and illumines time.
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN

In the olden days before the New World was discov-
ered, there lived a powerful Boriquefio chief named
Guasabara, which means “War.” And a valiant warrior
he was indeed, often leading his braves successfully
against the fierce Caribs, who were the constant enemies
of the peaceful inhabitants of the Isle of Boriquén.

Guasabara’s caney, or palm-thatched house, was large
and proof against the pelting tropical showers. It had
even withstood two attacks of the terrible spirit known to
the Indians as ““Juracan.”

The cacique had many children. His eldest son was
a stalwart lad of whom any father might have been justly
proud. Already he could hurl the stone ax farther than
any of his youthful companions; no target was too small
for his swift-flying arrows to find and pierce. He was
known as Macibao, or “Great Mountain of Stone,” be-
cause he would some day be the bulwark upon which the
entire tribe must depend.

And even as this one was noble and worthy, so were
all of the cacique’s children.

But the joy of Guasabara’s heart was his tiny daughter,
Tatagua—little “Jewel of Gold for the Ears.” During
hours of rest he liked nothing better than to watch the
antics of this pretty child. The members of the tribe,
knowing well their cacique’s love for his small daughter,

thought to find favor with him by bringing her many
178
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 179

gifts. Tatagua always had a garland of wild flowers
twined about her black hair. She wore miniature gold
bracelets on her slender ankles and wrists. Very often
Guasabara would be presented with necklaces of pretty
shells and bright colored berries for his daughter. The
women gave her pieces of the precious, vividly dyed cot-
ton cloth which was customarily used only for wrapping
the sacred zemis, or idols. The young boys brought her
round stones, just large enough for her little hand, so
that she might play at ball in the juego de bolas, or “ball
court.” Naturally a small girl who received as much at-
tention as Tatagua innocently thought that she could have
anything she desired, just as similarly treated little girls
have believed since the beginning of time.

Tatagua ate only the daintiest and best of foods. The
most freshly baked cassava cake was hers at each meal.
The most delectable piece of roasted rabbit was given to
the Princess. As she particularly liked sweet fruits, it
was the custom of the young braves, while roaming the
tropical forests, always to be on the lookout for the deli-
cate guandbanas, the luscious caimitos and nisperos, the
rich guayabas, and cajuiles. Neither did they neglect to
capture many bright-plumaged birds in order to present
the much desired feathers to Guasabara and his daughter.

One might think that with all this attention Tatagua
would have been a very disagreeable little girl. On the
contrary, no amount of adulation seemed in any way to
spoil her sweet disposition. All day she ran and danced
under the tall trees near the village, as happy, carefree,
and lovable as could be. Not only was she the delight of
her father’s life, but she was the good spirit of the tribe
as well,
180 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Now one day, as Tatagua was playing in the forest, she
stepped upon a poisonous vine. In fact, she became so
entangled in its wicked coils that she had some difficulty
in freeing herself. But, as she was in no way hurt, she
soon forgot all about the incident. That evening the
fever from the poison was already in her body. Perhaps
that was why Tatagua, the child who believed that she
could have anything she wanted, suddenly looked up to
the sky and asked for the stars. :

Guasabara was much dismayed. “But, my little
jewel,” he said, “nobody can have the stars, for nobody
can reach them.”

At this Tatagua, who was beginning to feel very ill,
started to cry. Several people, hearing her, ran to see
what was the matter.

“She wants the stars,” explained their cacique.

Everyone looked at his neighbor. What a strange re-
quest for their beloved Tatagua to make! Surely it was
something supernatural. The wise men were called in,
but they were not able to fathom the meaning of the
request.

By this time Tatagua was weeping more than ever and,
stretching her tiny hands up to heaven in a most pitiful
way, cried for someone to give her the stars.

“Perhaps she is going to die,” whispered one of the
men.

Guasabara heard him and a great fear rent his heart.
“Silence!” he thundered. “Let no one speak thus!
Who would be so cruel as to put such an idea into the
minds of the wicked spirits?”

The reproved man retreated into the shadows in great
shame at what he had said.
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 181

By and by Tatagua ceased crying for the stars and fell
asleep. Her father was overjoyed. What, then, was
his alarm when the next morning the Princess was found
to be very ill. And worse even than this was the fact
that in her delirium she continued to cry out constantly
for the stars.

Hastily Guasabara summoned the medicine men of the
tribe. These bohiques performed all the magic rites they
knew in an effort to cure the cacique’s daughter, but to no
avail. They had never had experience with an ailment
which they and every one else believed to have been
brought on by the child’s extraordinary desire to possess
the stars.

At first Guasabara soundly berated the terrified medi-
cine men for their inability to cure his daughter. Later,
as though he could not bear to hear her piteous cries, he
went out of the caney and sat apart, so engrossed in his
sorrow that no member of his tribe dared approach him.
His subjects stood at a respectful distance, trying to de-
cide what they might do.

“To think,” they whispered, “that the chief’s daughter,
who has all the blessings that heart could desire, should
be the one to be stricken! She who dwells in the caney
under the very shadow of the sacred zemis! How is it
that our gods have not protected her?’

“Look,” cried one, “there approaches the great bohique,
Tureigua, who has not walked for many, many moons;
who is so old that no living man has ever seen him
younger than he appears today! See, he approaches
Guasabara! Let us draw closer to hear what words of
wisdom shall fall from that mouth, silent all these years,
in this, Guasabara’s most desperate hour of need!”
182 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Quietly the awe-stricken members of the tribe fell in
behind the aged medicine man, who had not appeared out-
side his house for several years. He proceeded at a
snail's pace, leaning heavily the while upon a gnarled staff
of wood from the guayacan tree. He was seemingly
guided towards Guasabara by instinct, since his eyes had
long been sightless. At last he arrived before the sorrow-
ing cacique, lifted his quavering voice, and spoke thus:

“O illustrious son of Mother Earth and Father Sun, O
chief of many men and leader of victorious armies, if the
light of thine eyes be stricken, the way to cure it and to
restore it back to health is not to lament, but to act. O
first in war, O most high Guasabara, if thy little Princess,
"thy jewel of gold, cries for the stars, why shouldst thou
deny them to her? Why dost thou despair? To the
cacique all things are possible! Why dost thou not send
strong warriors to the ends of the earth where meet the
land and sky, there to pluck some stars for thy Tatagua?”’
With these words the old bohique turned and departed.

Guasabara sprang to his feet with new life and called
for the two mightiest of his warriors. As they hastened
to come before him, he commanded in a loud voice: “Go
ye, strong and fearless ones, to the farthermost ends of
the earth, even as Tureigua, ‘he who proceeded from the
sky,” has said. Hasten with the speed of the wind, pluck
there each of ye a handful of stars, and come again with
the swiftness of the lightning. Truly do I promise ye
in the presence of all the tribe, that to him who shall re-
turn first, Tatagua shall one day be given in marriage!”

With hearts quivering and eyes afire, the two braves
had turned to depart when they were stopped by a loud
cry. A boy of perhaps twelve years, known to all as
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 183

Kalichi, “Fountain of the Hills,” sprang forward and
fell on his knees before Guasabara, crying: “O great
and mighty chief, allow me, too, to go in search of the
stars, for I vow that I love Princess Tatagua truly! Dur-
ing all the years of my youth I have but waited for the
day that my father might ask thee for the Princess as a
bride for his son! How, then, can I longer hope, nay,
even live, if all chance for me to win Tatagua is lost to
me forever?”

“Up, thou young fool,” shouted Guasabara, nearly con-
sumed with rage. “Wouldst thou with thy childish prat-
ings delay these warriors from starting on the urgent
(quest which means my daughter’s life? Off!” he cried
angrily to the chosen braves. “How is it that ye can
stand there rooted like trees when every breath of time is
precious?’

At this reproof the two men were off like the wind, and
poor Kalichi crept away in sorrow and disgrace. He
stole near the cacique’s caney, whispered a few words out-
side the thatched walls which sheltered Tatagua, and dis-
appeared into the dense forest.

All of the tribe returned half-heartedly to their tasks,
biding the time impatiently until the two braves should
bring back the stars which would make their poor little
Princess well. Every moment Macibao kept watch to re-
port if either of these men was in sight. In the meantime
the poison took its course with Tatagua, and she hovered
between life and death. . . .

The two warriors separated, each determined that he
should be the first to return with the stars, thus assuring
himself that some day he would marry the Princess.

-
184 TALES OF BORINQUEN

The First Warrior went to the north, running as fast
as possible through the forest. He had not gone a great
distance when he began to think what a really difficult
search was before him. So far as he knew, no one had
ever seen the place where the sky and the earth met.
What if he should go for days and not find it? What if
the other brave were more lucky than he, returning first
with the stars, and thus receiving all the honors and
praise? It will be observed that already he was thinking
less of the Princess than of his own-selfish hopes of re-
ward.

The First Warrior began to wonder how he might se-
cure some stars without traveling all the way to the far
end of the earth which, as he had begun to feel weary, he
was by now sure must be a very great way off. He re-
called having often seen stars fall, and it occurred to him
that by searching very carefully he might be able to dis-
cover some of these stars among the tall grasses where
no one, to the best of his knowledge, had ever thought to
look for them. He at once entirely gave up the idea of
trying to reach the end of the earth.

“The other warrior will do that,” he reasoned happily,
“for he is not half so wise as I am. What a triumph I
shall enjoy! TI shall thenceforth march to battle at the
right hand of Guasabara.” His heart leaped at the
thought, for this had always been his secret ambition.

He parted the high grasses, searching very closely for
fallen stars, but did not succeed in finding any. By and
by, when he was growing quite discouraged, he had a
comforting thought. “How stupid I am to be looking
for stars in the daytime! Of course they are only visible
at night. I must wait until darkness comes to hunt for
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186 TALES OF BORINQUEN

them.” And immediately he lay down under a tree and
fell asleep.

Several hours later he awoke to find that all the forest
was dark. The stars were shining overhead. “Now is
the time to search!” he exclaimed, and, leaping to his feet,
he began to pull back the tall grasses, watching expect-
antly for stars. After about an hour, when he had be-
gun to suspect that he was not quite so clever as he had
considered himself earlier in the day, he caught sight of
something on the ground which made him hold his breath
with wonder and delight. For there among the thick
grass which he had just pulled apart were several gleam-
ing things—fallen stars without a doubt!”

“Now,” was his first triumphant thought, “I shall
march to battle at the right hand of the cacique!”

He hastily gathered up the ‘“‘stars,” which he was sur-
prised to find soft and moist, for he had always imagined
stars would be heavy and hot. Then he started back to-
wards the aldea, or village, guided by his natural sense of
direction.

“I am the first, I know it!” he gloated. The selfish
Indian had not a thought for the suffering Princess who
was going to be saved by the stars which he carried
wrapped in a large yautia leaf. Because of his great op-
portunity for personal gain and honor, he had forgotten
the unselfish devotion he had always hitherto felt for
Tatagua.

And while the First Warrior traveled back towards the
aldea, eager to realize his triumph, the boy Kalichi knelt
in a dense and lonely spot in the forest and prayed to the
merciful Father Sun that he might send down the stars
to make Tatagua well. . . .
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 187

Early in the morning the boy Macibao ran to his father,
crying joyously: “Courage, O my father, for one of the
warriors returns already with the stars!”

Even as Macibao spoke, the First Warrior appeared
breathlessly before his chief. News of his arrival spread
rapidly over the village, and many people arrived in time
to hear him say, “O great and noble Guasabara, thou seest
before thee thy humble slave. Even as thou didst com-
mand, he flew with the speed of the wind to the far end
of the earth, and returned with the swiftness of the light-
ning !”

“And the stars, O man of too many words, where are
the stars?” cried Guasabara, consumed with impatience,
for the rising of the sun had not found Tatagua in any
way improved.

“O master,” replied the First Warrior, kneeling before
the chief, “here they are in this leaf, those stars which I
procured where the sky meets the earth!” and he proffered
the leaf, which everyone regarded with awe, no one re-
calling ever having seen any stars.

Eagerly and with trembling hands Guasabara un-
wrapped the leaf amidst a profound silence. But when
he stared down at what was within, a look of unbelief
came over his face, followed by such a black frown that
his observers shrank away in terror.

Like an avenging god, Guasabara turned upon the First
Warrior, who was now cowering in fear at his feet. “O
wretched and perfidious creature, how darest thou trifle
with me in this hour? What devil has possessed thee
that thou hast brought me these filthy worms, calling them
stars? How sayest thou that thou hast been to the far
ends of the earth? Lying coward that thou art, thou

’)
188 TALES OF BORINQUEN

shalt be severely punished. Thou shalt wear my heaviest
stone collar about thy neck for seven days, continuing all
that time without food, and being thankful the while that
I spared thy miserable life!” With these words the chief
scornfully cast the leaf and its contents upon the ground
and strode away. The First Warrior crept towards it in
amazement and saw to his horror that all it contained
were a few small dead worms. He was not permitted to
look long before he was seized and borne away to the de-
grading and aw ful punishment which he so well deserved.

And the glow-worms lay on the ground, stared at by
the other Boriquefios, who wondered what bewitchment
had made stars turn into worms.

While these things were taking place, the Second War-
rior, who had gone southward, had begun to despair of
ever discovering the place where the earth meets the sky.
“Doubtless the other, more fortunate than I, has by now
already found and returned with the stars, and conse-
quently I shall never be overlord of all the chief’s slaves!”
For this was the secret ambition of the Second Warrior.
In his desire to realize it he had already dismissed from
his mind the primary object of his journey.

“Who,” he thought miserably, “has ever reached the
end of the earth and returned to tell of it? No one!
For I have run for a day, a night, and half of another
day, and the sky is as high above my head as ever. Even
though I climb the highest mountain, the sky ever retreats
above me, until, when I arrive at the summit, it is still
far out of my reach! If it does not soon begin to curve
downwards,” he reasoned angrily, “I can no longer hope
to be the lord over all of Guasabara’s slaves!” and he
struck the rock of the mountainside where he was stand-
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 189

 

 

In the mountains of Boriquén.

ing a mighty blow with the stone-tipped staff he carried.
The rock splintered and bits of it flew all about him.
Then he observed a miracle. Every piece of the broken
rock glistened and sparkled in the sunshine—just like the
stars at night!

With a joyous cry the Second Warrior began to gather
up the hard and shining pieces of stone. “At some time,”
he thought, “the sky has brushed over the top of this
190 TALES OF BORINQUEN

mountain, leaving some stars behind. Now I shall be the
lord over all of the chief’s slaves, for the other warrior
cannot have returned ere this!” And with never a
thought of the princess he ran down the mountain and off
through the trees.

And while the Second Warrior traveled back towards
the aldea, eager to realize his triumph, the boy Kalichi
knelt in a dense and lonely spot in the forest and prayed
to the merciful Father Sun that he might send down the
stars to make Tatagua well. . . .

It was almost dark the following day before the Second
Warrior was sighted by the watching Macibao, who car-
ried the news to the cacique. :

Guasabara hastened to meet the messenger, for on
this day Tatagua had been even worse than before.
“Where,” he cried from afar, “O welcome one, where are
thy stars?”

The Second Warrior began breathlessly: “O noble
Guasabara, I come from the end of the world to—"

“Have done!” cried his cacique. “Waste no time on
speeches, but give me the stars, else my daughter perish!”

So perforce the Second Warrior handed over his
“stars,” which were wrapped in a piece of yagua from the
royal palm. Trembling, Guasdbara unwrapped them.
All the onlookers expected to be blinded by their glory.
But no brilliance resulted. And when the chief discov-
ered nothing at all but a few pieces of stone which were
not even visible in the darkness, he was so furious that
he scarcely could utter the words which consigned the hap-
less Second Warrior to the same fate as that suffered by
the First Warrior.
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 191

And as the night stole on and the Indians finally retired
to their small huts, called bohios, those two selfish
wretches were left to the black solitude of the stone-
enclosed ball court where, suffering under the terrific
weight of the monstrous stone collars and half-starving,
they passed the time lamenting their unfortunate lot.

Three more days passed, and still Tatagua was very
ill. When the fifth night fell upon the aldea, she lay in a
weak stupor which everyone feared was the state preced-
ing death. Though they did not know it, the crisis of the
fever was past, and Tatagua was already beginning to
YECOVEr. ou

Now in the forest young Kalichi had for five days and
nights besought Father Sun to send the stars. Was it to
be that, after all, his great love and faith were to go un-
rewarded? Had one of the warriors by this time re-
turned with the stars?

“I am poor and weak,” prayed Kalichi. “I ask for
nothing (previously in his prayers he had expressed the
hope that one day he might marry the Princess). I ask
for nothing, O great Father Sun, nothing, except that
thou shalt send the stars so that Tatagua may be cured!”
And when he had made this totally unselfish prayer, his
vigil was at last rewarded. For, as though by a miracle,
the sky seemed to send down a rain of stars through the
night. Swirling and circling all about the dazzled Bori-
quefio boy were myriads of lovely twinkling lights.
“Why,” he thought, “the stars are little winged spirits!”
and at this amazing discovery he hastened to capture some
of the “flying stars,” which he placed gently in his
higiiera. Then, after he had caught about a hundred, he
192 TALES OF BORINQUEN

held his hand over the end of the dried calabash so that
the bright spirits might not escape, and ran with all speed
towards the aldea.

When finally he found himself before Guasabara, he
was too breathless to speak and silently held out his
gourd.

“So,” cried Guasabara, “another comes to mock me
with false stars! Out of my sight, scoundrel!”

Kalichi shrank back. Was it possible that he was not
even to be allowed to show his lovely stars to Tatagua?
“But, great chief, I have brought the stars!” he cried in
such a tone of despair that the sorrowing cacique’s atten-
tion was arrested.

“Show them to me,” he said doubtfully.

“QO leader of us all, kind father of beautiful little Tata-
gua, I beg of thee to let me take the stars to her!”

Guasabara reluctantly granted this daring request and
led the way. After them came most of the naborias,
that is, the men and women of the tribe, who had all been
mourning for the Princess.

First Guasabara and then Kalichi entered the caney,
followed by as many as could crowd in. There in a
hammock, her eyes closed, lay Tatagua.

“Wake up, O beautiful one!” cried Kalichi. “Smile
on us once more, for, see, thy poor slave has brought thee
the stars!” And he released the “stars” from the gourd.
Then to the wonderment of all, the caney was immediately
alight with glorious star-like creatures, flying in every
direction. Tatagua, who had opened her tired eyes at
the call of her beloved companion, gave a cry of delight,
which was echoed by all who heard her. She stretched
out her little hands to catch the bright spirits which
PRINCESS TATAGUA OF BORIQUEN 193

Kalichi had brought that they might restore her to health.
Already her lethargy had disappeared, and though she was
still weak, it was evident that she was soon to be among
them once more as the good fairy of the tribe.

Then there were held areitos of rejoicing beyond any-
thing ever witnessed in the aldea, their sounds even reach-
ing the ears of the two wretched prisoners who had been
removed from the ball court in order to make way for the
festive dances.

So to faithful Kalichi was given the reward which had
been promised to one of the braves, and many wondrous
gifts besides, both from the chief and from the rest of
the tribe.

“Thou shalt be as my son, O Kalichi, and march on my
right hand to battle,” declared Guasabara. “And thou
shalt be a lord over slaves, a master of men, a wise bo-
hique, or anything that thou shalt desire to be!” he added,
heaping gratuitously upon Kalichi all the glory contested
for and lost by the two selfish warriors.

Thenceforth Kalichi’s “stars” continued with the tribe
and multiplied, brightening the nights in the gloom-wrapt
forests. The Boriquefios called them cucubanos, which
means “lights from the sky.”

And thus it was that Kalichi, through his unselfish
prayers, brought health and happiness to Princess Tata-
gua and the first fireflies to Porto Rico.
BLUE FLOWER

(BEYOND CIALES)

There dwells a man on a mountain-top
Who knows not books or learning,

So neither he nor his wife nor child
Looks out through Space with yearning.

All day they toil on the mountain-top—
Each one his task despatches.

When galaxies blazon overhead,
They sleep beneath frail thatches.

They are content on the mountain-top,
Accepting its hard dower;

And all their simple-hearted pride
Is met in one Blue Flower.

I could not dwell on a mountain-top,
Amidst the clouds and thunder,

For they, and the vales and seas below
Would maze me with Earth’s wonder.

I could not sleep on a mountain-top,
So bravely near to heaven,

For the mighty pageantry of stars
With fear my life would leaven.

Nor could I stay on a mountain-top,
Away from towns forever,
104
BLUE FLOWER 195

For the loneliness of the human soul
Drives men to live together.

All too aware of Time and Space,
Their endlessness and power,

I dare but walk with other folk
From banal hour to hour.

Oh, blest is he who on hill or plain
Looks not beyond a flower!

DAYBREAK
(ON THE CONDADO BEACH)

Tumultuous dawn!

The hoary sea exults,

And leaps and rolls

In pagan joy to hold the Sun

Once more upon its crest,

While gulls start up in glad amaze
From gleaming, creviced rocks
And wing their blinded flight

Into His glory. . . ;

And mountainous clouds

Along the vast horizon,

Raise gorgeous palaces

From out the bluish mist,

Whose domes and battlements and spires
Are sheathed in gold!
TABLES TURNED

Miss Lorenzo strolled along the street at a deliberate
pace, enjoying thoroughly the bright cool morning and the
greetings of her many friends.

“Good day, Amalita! This is fine weather we are hav-
ing. You do not seem to be in a hurry this morning.”

“Good day, Dona Luz,” smiled Miss Lorenzo. “No,
I am not in so great a rush as usual, for I do not have
any cooking class to teach today. The Home Economics
girls have been busy sewing all this week. They are pre-
paring for the exhibit on Saturday. You will be sure to
come to that, Dofia Luz?”

“Oh, yes, certainly. You remember my Sarita is in
the class.”

“That is right! Sarita is a very sweet girl. Well,
adiosito!”

“1Adios!”

Miss Lorenzo walked on, stopping a moment under the
spreading acacia tree to exchange a few words with old
Don Manuel who kept a wentorrillo, or tiny store, where
he sold miscellaneous groceries.

“Good morning, Don Manuel, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you; and you?”

“Very well. And how is business?”

“Poor. The truck from San Juan is a week overdue
with my fresh supplies, and I am low on everything.

They say it is because a bridge was washed out.”
106
TABLES TURNED 197

“Yes, I heard that. It is too bad. I haven't been
ordering any groceries this week; but I suppose the other
stores must be having trouble too.”

“They are. The town is nearly out of perishable sup-
plies.”

“Too bad! Well, good day, Don Manuel!” And
Miss Lorenzo went her way.

“:Adiés, Amalita!” called a familiar voice from a
balcony a little further on. It was Alejo, the telegraph
operator, and a suitor for the hand of pretty, petite
Amalia Lorenzo.

“How is everything, Alejo?”

“Muy malo!—very bad!” he exclaimed. “Excuse me
if IT do not rise! Last night on my way home from the
office T stepped into a hole in the dark and hurt my foot.
I'm trying to get it cured quickly so that I can go to the
dance Saturday night.” He blushed, for he had asked
Amalia to accompany him.

“That is too bad! Is there anything I can do to help
you, Alejo?” Her voice was so sweet and sympathetic
that the young fellow was almost glad he had injured his
foot in spite of the pain.

“No, thank you! I am just waiting for my little
brother to come back with a pair of crutches which I am
borrowing in order to go to the office. Of course this
would have to be the very day that my assistant goes oft
to the country to a pig roast! Who knows what im-
portant messages are clicking away right now and no one
there to take them down!”

“Don’t worry, Alejo! I doubt if there will be any
messages of great importance coming into Manati today.
I would take it easy if I were you,” she advised, thinking
108 TALES OF BORINQUEN

also of the dance and hoping that he would be able to go.

Miss Lorenzo continued towards her school, while
Alejo decided to follow her solicitous counsel. The most
agreeable thing in life for him was to do Amalia Lo-
renzo’s bidding. Soon he was going to ask her to marry
him. He had already spoken to her father. Little did

 

 

 

An attractive street in Manati.

Alejo know that at that very moment his chances of
winning Amalia’s hand were very slender and shrinking
with every passing second.

When Miss Lorenzo reached the two-roomed green
building which housed the Home Economics department
of the Manati High School, her ears were greeted by the
pleasant whirring sound of several sewing machines,
running at top speed. She stopped for a moment to look
in upon the busy scene in the sewing room, which also
served as dining room. Here the girls practiced serving
TABLES TURNED 199

meals with members of the class for guests or occasion-
ally actually served a banquet for important official vis-
itors to the school. A sight of pretty confusion greeted
Miss Lorenzo's eyes. Hanging around the walls were
numerous bright-colored garments, already finished by
the class and arranged for display. The floor was strewn
with scraps of every size and hue, because this morning
there was no time for scrupulous neatness if the “party
dresses” of the twelve girls were to be ready for the ex-
hibit. Miss Stewart, the sewing teacher, was flying
about distractedly, waving a glittering pair of scissors in
one hand and a long tape measure in the other, directing
the animated cutting going on at the tables, overseeing
the delicate ‘“handwork,” and supervising the machine
sewing. In the general rush, rules had been relaxed, and
the girls all chattered loudly so as to be heard above the
whir of the machines. In the midst of such a scene of
merry industry, it was difficult to recall the dignified meals
that had been served in that very room under Miss Lo-
renzo’s supervision. “I am glad that I sent the dining-
room table to the Manual Training department to have the
broken leg repaired,” she reflected. “These girls would
without doubt be using it for a cutting table if it were
here, and I certainly would not like to have my nice pol-
ished table all scarred.”

“Good morning, Miss Lorenzo,” greeted Miss Stewart.
“You can see that we have a very busy day before us!”

“So it seems!” replied Miss Lorenzo, smiling on the
class in general.

Proceeding into the other room, which was the kitchen,
Miss Lorenzo gazed around her with satisfaction. The
morning sunlight, streaming through the wide open win-
200 TALES OF BORINQUEN

dows, disclosed a scene of neatness and cleanliness which
delighted her orderly mind. There were the six brightly
polished oil stoves, with not so much as a speck of grease
to show where the feasts of other days had been boiled and
baked. There were the kitchen tables with their shining
white-enameled tops, bought with money raised by the
girls themselves, who took great pride in this “laboratory”
where they were learning to be the housewives of the
future. All along one side small doors were wide open,
so that the nearly empty supply shelves might be well aired
before they were re-stocked with provisions for the next
week's work. Foreseeing the present situation, Miss Lo-
renzo had economically arranged for her pupils to use up
nearly all the supplies so that they might not spoil or be-
come stale. Only a few staples, such as spices, sugar,
and baking powder were ranged along the shelves in their
tightly closed tin cans. The flour bin was almost empty.
The big ice-box also stood wide open with the hot sun
streaming into every well-scrubbed corner. The floor
was ‘‘clean enough to eat off of,” and, all in all, Miss
Lorenzo was very well pleased with the appearance of her
kitchen, which had been left in such excellent order while
not in use.

She seated herself at her little desk, which stood near
a window, and lifted from a drawer a large pile of thick
notebooks which had been handed in for correction. She
spent some time in carefully sharpening the point of her
blue pencil, for the morning was very warm, and without
any really strenuous duties to perform Miss Lorenzo felt
quite drowsy. The humming noises in the sewing room
were softened to a monotonous drone by the closed door
TABLES TURNED 201

between. Slowly Miss Lorenzo drew a notebook towards
her and fell to work. So the morning passed on towards
noon.

About eleven o'clock Miss Lorenzo raised her head
from her work upon hearing her name timidly pro-
nounced. In the open doorway stood a small boy, evi-
dently very much frightened at being in the presence of a
high-school teacher.

“What do you want?’ asked Miss Lorenzo.

“I have a—"

Miss Lorenzo caught sight of the yellow envelope in
his hand. “You have a telegram!” she said quickly.
“Is 1 for me?”

Now Miss Lorenzo really did not expect a telegram, for
the truth must be told that Alejo occasionally took advan-
tage of the fact that he had a messenger boy, and sent
little notes to Amalia, putting them, as a joke, into one of
the official yellow envelopes. This also she supposed was
a note from Alejo, as she took it from the child and tore
it open. But when a moment later she had read its con-
tents, her behavior was so remarkable that the tiny lad
ran out as fast as his short legs would carry him, con-
vinced that the profesora had lost her mind.

For first Miss Lorenzo gasped. Then she cried out in
horror, “No! Oh, no! Impossible!!” as though some-
one were standing right there, insisting on something with
which she particularly disagreed.

Her face pale, her hand trembling, she re-read the mes-
sage, whereupon she as vehemently cried, “Yes! Oh,
yes!” and then moaned. For a few moments thereafter
she sat transfixed, staring at the sheet of yellow paper
202 TALES OF BORINQUEN

in her hand with an expression which would have led any
onlooker to believe that it could be no less than her death
warrant. For this is what poor Miss Lorenzo read:

OCTOBER 3I, 10—
MISS AMALIA LORENZO
MANATI HIGH SCHOOL
MANATI, PORTO RICO

PLEASE PREPARE SPECIAL LUNCHEON ONE O'CLOCK TODAY FOR SIXTEEN
PEOPLE INCLUDING VISITING OFFICIALS FROM COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
NEW YORK

COMMISSIONER OF EDUCATION
MAYAGUEZ 8.00 A.M.

Underneath this message of doom was scrawled a hasty
note in Alejo’s handwriting :

Oh, Amalita, can you ever forgive me for not going to
the office early this morning? Please let me know if I can
help you in any way.

Yours,
Alejo

“I can never forgive him or anyone,” breathed Miss
Lorenzo through dry lips. She felt powerless to move.
Oh, she simply could not stand it! It was too much to
ask of her! And on the very worst possible day too!
Not a thing to eat in the place, and most of the stores in
town low on perishable supplies, due to that bridge being
out! All these thoughts rushed through her mind in a
second, much as they say the past events of his life pass
before the mind of a drowning person. Miss Lorenzo
suddenly roused herself. Yes, Alejo (stupid fellow, to
get his foot sprained on such an occasion!) could do
TABLES TURNED 203

something! He could send them a message not to come!
She turned to tell this to the young boy but he had van-
ished. She glanced at her wrist watch. Eleven o'clock!
Only two hours in which to prepare what must be a ban-
quet, if it were to be served at all to such distinguished
visitors! She wrung her hands, and the empty shelves
and yawning refrigerator seemed to mock her. What to
do? What to do? Feeling the need of human assist-
ance, she snatched up the direful telegram and hastened
towards the sewing room. Her mind was now tortured
with thoughts that if she failed she might not only lose
her own position, but ruin the fine reputation held by the
schools of her town.

She opened the door and stood in the doorway, such a
picture of suffering and woe that one by one the busy
workers in the sewing room laid down their work to stare
in amazement at her, until, in a moment or two, deep
silence prevailed.

Miss Stewart looked just once at her fellow teacher
and, uttering a cry, hastened towards her. “Oh, Amalia!
Are you ill? = What in the world is the matter?” She
reached Miss Lorenzo and put her arm about her. Then
she saw the telegram. “Bad news!” was the thought that
instantly flashed through her head. “Poor, dear Amalia,”
murmured the American girl sofily. “What ‘is it?
Have you had some sad news?”

Miss Lorenzo stared at her as from a tragic dream.
The silence was now intense, everyone straining to catch
her answer. “Sad news?” she echoed stupidly. “Sad?
It’s worse than sad—it’s a calamity! A catastrophe of
the worst kind! Oh, Mildred, what shall 1 do?’ and
suddenly Miss Lorenzo, usually so calm and sure of her-
204 TALES OF BORINQUEN

self, broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. The girls
of the class were stupefied.

Miss Stewart gently took the fatal paper from Miss
Lorenzo’s hand and quickly scanned its portentous mes-
sage. Immediately she understood that this was indeed a
calamity or nearly one. Her face, too, wore the most
doleful and dismayed expression imaginable. But she
quickly recovered, perhaps because, being the sewing
teacher, her reputation did not hang in the balance, as did
Miss Lorenzo's.

“Come!” exclaimed Miss Stewart. “Nothing is so
bad that it might not be worse! We have—let me see—
nearly two hours. Miracles can be accomplished in that
time, if everyone falls to and does her duty!”

Miss Lorenzo looked up through her tears and said
brokenly, ‘“But—but there is not a thing to eat in the
place! Look at this room! Why! We don’t even have
a t-table!” and her weeping broke out afresh. “Oh!
Oh!” she moaned, “I am ruined! Absolutely ruined!
And all because of that s-stupid man! T’ll never speak to
him again! Never!”

At this the girls pricked up their ears, sensing romance
in the air. Now one and all believed that they knew what
the message was—something alarming from their teach-
er’s sweetheart, Alejo! They leaned forward in their
seats in order not to miss a bit of the little drama. Sud-
denly Miss Stewart turned to them. “Girls,” she said,
“Miss Lorenzo is in great trouble!”

“Yes!” they seemed to breathe, as they strained further
forward in order to hear every syllable, for, well as they
knew it, English was still hard to understand in moments
of excitement.
TABLES TURNED 205

“Every one of us will have to begin this minute and
work as we never have before in order to help her.”

“Fine!” seemed to say the tense faces. Several of
the more imaginative ones had swift visions of them-
selves helping to wreak some terrible revenge on the
innocent Alejo. They felt themselves ready for the fray,
whatever it might be, for they dearly loved Miss Lo-
renzo.

“In less than two hours,” continued Miss Stewart, un-
aware of their romantic flutterings, “there will arrive here
sixteen high officials, including men from our own De-
partment of Education in San Juan and professors from
Columbia University in New York, who are on a tour of
inspection of the schools of Porto Rico. A luncheon
must be prepared for them by this Home Economics class
and served in this very room at one o'clock!”

Something like panic spread over the faces before her.
Out went the light of romance like a shattered electric
bulb. Something between a moan and a nervous laugh
went up. Every girl stared at her neighbor in a dazed
kind of way, well knowing that this was a task unequalled
in their experience.

The calm words and manner of Miss Stewart did much
to restore Miss Lorenzo to her naturally efficient state of
mind. Her first feeling was one of relief that she had
not sent the telegram of refusal. Why, that would have
been terrible! It might very well have cost her her posi-
tion—openly refusing the request of the Commissioner in
such a manner. It was not his fault that the telegram
had been delivered so late, nor was it his duty to see that
her kitchen was stocked with food! Well, she must do
her best. Putting on a brave smile, she now stepped for-
200 TALES OF BORINQUEN

ward as briskly as she was able. Somehow things did not
seem quite so hopeless as they had at first, with twelve
affectionate faces looking towards her, waiting her bid-
ding to act to the very best of their ability in any capacity
she might suggest. Suddenly little Miss Lorenzo felt
very much like a general in the moment of outlining a
campaign which simply must wot fail. “Thank you, Mil-
dred,” she murmured. “With your help and the help of
all my girls, I think we shall be able to do it!” For a
few moments she thought deeply, while no one so much
as moved, not daring to disturb her thoughts at such a
critical moment. Finally she raised her head, and every-
one listened breathlessly for her commands.

“Miss Stewart,” she said, “if you will be so kind, I
would like you and four of the girls, Sarita, Inés, Laura,
and Clara, to take charge of this room, clean it, put it in
order” (she gazed around at the indescribable confusion
in considerable wonderment as to how such a tremendous
task could be accomplished in so short a time), “arrange
the table—" she got no further. Again an expression of
sheer panic filled her black eyes. The table was not there!
She had forgotten that. Poor Miss Lorenzo was once
more on the verge of tears.

“Never mind,” consoled Miss Stewart confidently.
“Just leave that to us. We will get the table.” :

“Mildred, I can never repay you. Well, then, the rest
of the girls come into the kitchen with me. And don't
forget,” she added to Miss Stewart, “the banquet cloth
must be ironed, and there must be a suitable centerpiece of
flowers. And there ought to be at least six waitresses in

white dresses. Oh, girls, IT hope some of you have clean
~ white dresses at home?”
TABLES TURNED 207

Several, fortunately to the number of six, raised their
hands signifying that they had.

Miss Lorenzo sighed in relief. “Then I appoint,” her
eye ranged over the faces before her and came to rest on
that of Obdulia, a fat girl, very pleasant and willing, but
forever in someone’s way, “Obdulia!” said Miss Lo-
renzo, feeling that she had made a very fortunate de-
cision. “You may go to the houses of the girls whose
hands are raised to collect their white dresses and bring
them here. There will be no time for anyone to go home
to change.”

Obdulia, not comprehending in the least why she had
been chosen for this special mission, laboriously wrote
down the six names, not daring to trust her memory, and
went out with the command ringing in her ears to “hurry
as you have never hurried in your life before!” Alas!
What a command to give an awkward, fat girl! But
Obdulia ran ponderously off, willing to do or die for poor
Miss Lorenzo.

Now began what looked like a miniature revolution in
the two rooms of the Home Economics Department.
Miss Stewart tied a large piece of white cloth around her
brown hair and directed the cleaning away of every ves-
tige of the sewing. She decided, however, to leave the
pretty finished dresses hanging around the wall. “They
add a nice note of color,” she thought, “and will distract
our visitors’ attention from any defects of the banquet!”

In the kitchen Miss Lorenzo was frenziedly planning
her menu, preparatory to sending the seven girls who
stood around her to the grocery, market, butcher shop,
and bakery for necessary supplies. ‘“Let’s see,” she said,
her face all wrinkled up in her effort to concentrate, for
208 © TALES OF BORINQUEN

she knew that there was scarcely an article they did not
need. “We will begin with grapefruit and maraschino
cherries, as that is easiest. Here, Juana, write every-
thing down. Then we will have soup—Iet me see—what
kind of soup?”

“Chicken!” suggested Lola, naming her own favorite
kind.

Miss Lorenzo regarded her severely. “Hush!” she
said. “The idea! Do you think we have time to find,
kill, clean, or cook a chicken? We will do well if we
have canned tomato soup! Write that down, Juana.
Six cans of tomato soup.”

Now Miss Lorenzo greatly enjoyed her work and no
part of it more than planning menus. Iiveryone pre-
dicted that Alejo was going to be a very lucky young
husband. So, even in this moment of anxiety, her im-
agination did not fail her, and as her enthusiasm gathered
she began to visualize the appetizing dishes she would
place before the distinguished men, forgetting for the
time being that this was an emergency. As she went on
to plan the luncheon, the girls regarded her wonderingly,
thinking that she had been a little unjust in her sharp re-
proof of poor, well-meaning Lola, who had retired to the
dooryard, weeping softly at the first scolding she had ever
received from her beloved Miss Lorenzo. “Next we
must have fish,” continued their teacher. “We will have
boiled pargo colorado with vegetable sauce over it. I
wish we could have turkey, but there simply isn’t time to
roast it. So we will have beefsteak, banana croquets,
mashed potatoes, peas, and string beans. There! That
should please the visitors from the North, as it is a regular
American lunch. We will have fresh pineapple salad,
TABLES TURNED 209

peach ice cream, and pound cake with meringue, and black
coffee. Do you have all that down, Juana?”

“Yes, ma'am, but—"

Miss Lorenzo did not wait till Juana finished but hast-
ily began to make out her list of supplies. Soon the
seven girls were hastening off in every direction to buy
the ingredients for the elaborate “American lunch” their
teacher planned to serve on two hours’ notice, in a small
town where, at the best of times, it was difficult to buy
just anything one might fancy.

After everyone had departed, Miss Lorenzo filled sev-
eral receptacles with water and set it to heating on three
of the stoves which fortunately had oil in their tanks.
“It’s a wonder I didn’t empty even the oil!” she thought,
reproaching herself at every turn for her short-
sightedness.

In the meantime Miss Stewart, having succeeded in
literally stuffing the sewing out of sight, had despatched
her helpers to get fruit and flowers for table decorations,
while she herself went to the Manual Training room to
secure the dining-room table. When she arrived there,
she found that classes had been dismissed for noon recess.
No one was about but two old negro janitors, who did not
know a word of English, while she, who had been in
Porto Rico only a month and a half, spoke practically no
Spanish! :

She rattled vigorously at the locked door, while the two
old men stood some distance down the corridor, looking
with undisguised interest at the Americana wearing the
strange white headdress. Finding her efforts unsuccess-
ful, she turned to them and cried with vehemence, “; 1 d-
yanse!”
210 TALES OF BORINQUEN

To her dismay they turned reluctantly and started am-
bling away. What was the matter with them? Hadn't
she told them to “come”?

“No! No!” cried the distracted teacher, shouting,
“iViayanse! [Vdyanse!” more strongly than before.

The two old fellows, who had turned hopefully at hear-
ing her “No! No!” now looked at each other dazedly
and made off as fast as possible from the Americanita
who was telling them to “Go! Go away!” in no uncertain
tones! :

Poor Miss Stewart ran after them in despair. She
clutched their sleeves. “No!” she cried. “Come!”
Oh, what in the world was the Spanish for “come”?
She began pulling them after her, and they finally under-
stood that she wanted them to follow.

Reaching the door, she indicated by frantic signs that
she wanted it opened. Somewhat uneasily one of them
finally drew out a key and opened the door. Miss Stew-
art hastily entered the room and there stood the table
in. a comer. Mesa! Mesa!” she cried in relief,
running up to it, much as a mother might greet a lost
child.

“Si, si, Senorita,” agreed the old janitors affably,
anxious to be courteous. It was undoubtedly a table,
though why she should go into such ecstasies over it puz-
zled them not a little. How strange this American pro-
fesora was!

“Now, how in the world,” thought Miss Stewart, “am
I ever going to make them understand that they must
carry it for me?”

“Mesa,” she said again.

They nodded hopefully.
TABLES TURNED 211

“Mesa mia,” she continued, encouraged by their agree-
ment.

They looked doubtful. Her table? They shook their
heads.

Miss Stewart made another effort. “Mesa mia, con-
migo!” ‘Table, mine, with me!”

“No, no, Seiiorita, no es suya,” they declared. “No,
no, Miss, it is not yours!”

Miss Stewart now made a supreme effort. “Seiiorita
Lorenzo quiere,” she said, trying to inform them that
Miss Lorenzo wanted the table.

“A-ah!” That already familiar exclamation of com-
prehension told her to her relief that they understood at
last.

“But, Sefiorita!” they at once protested and went off
into a perfect rigmarole of Spanish, both of them talking
at the same time with the utmost animation.

She was completely in the dark. Suddenly she held up
one hand in the typical Porto Rican gesture for silence
and said with a firmness not to be mistaken. “Mesa
conmigo jen sequida!” “Table with me, at once!”

The two old men looked at her helplessly ; then, shrug-
ging their shoulders, they lifted the table and followed her
with it to the Home Economics dining room, muttering
all the way and occasionally breaking into desperate speech
of which she did not understand a word. With relief she
saw it standing at last in the center of the floor and
watched the two dusky janitors depart, still talking to
each other, with emphatic gestures now that their hands
were free.

Her helpers returned empty-handed. “There is not a
flower to be had!” announced Clara.
212 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“What! No flowers in the land of flowers!”

“No, ma'am. They have all been gathered to put on
the graves, for tomorrow is El Dia de los Muertos, you
know.”

“No, Clara, I don’t. What in the world is that?”

“ ‘The Day of the Dead,’ Miss Stewart. Don’t you
have that day in the United States?”

Suddenly Miss Stewart remembered that on the eve-
ning of this day at home they would celebrate Hallowe'en.
How far away it all seemed! Perhaps there was some
connection. “We don’t decorate the graves today,” she
replied. “When we have more time, you must tell me all
about it. But isn’t there a single flower of any kind we
can use?” She went to the door, as though she expected
to see the school yard suddenly ablaze with bloom. Her
eye fell on a hibiscus bush full of bright red blossoms.
“Why, there are some beautiful ones!” she cried, point-
ing at the bush.

The girls regarded her incredulously. ‘“Pavonas?”
they queried, not knowing the Iinglish name. “But no
one ever uses them on the table, Miss Stewart. They are
too common. And besides they are usually full of ants.”

“I think they are beautiful, even if they are common,’
declared Miss Stewart. “You must remember that we
do not have them in the States. They will look interest-
ing to the men from the North. We can shake the ants
out.”

Reluctantly three of the girls went to pick some of the
hibiscus flowers, while Miss Stewart put Sarita to work,
pressing the elaborately embroidered banquet cloth which
was Miss Lorenzo's special pride.

The kitchen was by now full of steam and growing
TABLES TURNED 213

hotter every moment. “Thank Heaven, we have pota-
toes!” thought Miss Lorenzo over and over, as she peeled
so swiftly that the knife slipped several times and finally
cut her finger. She kept anxious lookout for the return
of her messengers, glancing constantly at her wrist watch,
which indicated that time was not waiting for anybody,
least of all for a Home Economics teacher who had been
caught napping!

“Teacher, there are no fish,” announced a tragic voice
from the doorway.

“No fish?”

“No, Miss Lorenzo. The fish man’s baby has the
mumps and the market is closed. We could have dried
codfish—"" suggested Irma hopefully, naming her favorite
kind of sea food.

“Irma! Common ordinary codfish for visitors?
Never! Oh, what shall I do?’ wailed Miss Lorenzo,
with presentiments that this was not going to be the first
disaster to assail her banquet.

Miss Stewart hastened to the door. “What is it,
Amalia?”

“No fish!”

“Get canned salmon,” suggested Miss Stewart instantly.
“We can serve it right from the can with lemon—"

“But there are no lemons, no grapefruit, no pineapples
—only oranges!” cried Berta, who had just returned from
market, and had overheard the last word.

“But why?” moaned Miss Lorenzo. “There must be
fruit!”

“They say at the market it is because I came too
late. The little fruit that they had, sold early, and they
had only a little because the bridge—"
214 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“That bridge! I can see where it will finish me!
Well, run quickly to the grocery, Berta, and get canned
grapefruit and pineapple. Who could imagine such a
thing in the land of fruit?”

“Or in the land of flowers either,” murmured Miss
Stewart, under her breath. “Well, go with Berta and get
the salmon anyway, Irma. I know how to make a salmon
loaf with milk—"

“No fresh milk teday,” announced Juana.

“No milk? But where are the cows?”

“The bridge—" began Juana, but was stopped by a
groan from Miss Lorenzo.

“But, Juana, the river does not surround Manati!
What is the matter with the cows on the west side?”

“No one brought in any supplies today. They say
everyone in the country, who could get there, has gone to
that big pig-roast at the Palomita Sugar Central.”

The big pig-roast! There was where Alejo’s miserable
assistant had gone! Miss Lorenzo harbored only the bit-
terest feelings at that moment towards all men in the
world, including even the guests she shortly expected for
luncheon.

“Run after Berta and Irma and tell them to get canned
milk also,” said Miss Stewart, “and then hurry back here,
for we need you!” =

Miss Lorenzo laughed hysterically. “It looks as
though this will turn out to be a ‘canned’ luncheon!
What an accomplishment for a Home Economics class!”

“More of an accomplishment,” replied Miss Stewart
grimly, “than one might think!”

“Here is the canned tomato soup, the olives, the canned
peaches, the sugar, the canned butter, the canned peas.
TABLES TURNED 215%

But there were no fresh green beans, no lettuce, and no
bananas in the market,” said Lola and Josefa coming in
with a large, heavy basket.

“You see!” cried Miss Lorenzo, breaking into mirthless
laughter. “What did I tell you?”

“Thank Providence for the canning industry, is what
I say!” exclaimed Miss Stewart, who was more optimistic.
“Get out the can-openers, girls!”

Lola, Josefa, Juana, and Miss Lorenzo plunged into
action. In a few moments the rich red soup was heating
on the stove. The potatoes were put on to boil. Miss
Lorenzo began to stir up one of the pound cakes for
which she was famous. No one in Manati could make
better ones.

“I will go back and supervise the setting of the table,”
said Miss Stewart. “Call me when the salmon comes.
Mercy on us, it is already twelve o'clock!”

“And the meat not here yet! I have a strange feeling
that there is no fresh meat!” cried Miss Lorenzo, stop-
ping her vigorous beating of the egg yolks. “Who went
for the meat?”

“Ana,” replied Juana, who was one of the star members
of the class.

“Get some ham and have ham omelet, then,” suggested
Miss Stewart to Miss Lorenzo. “You also have some
peas to put into it. Men always like a good omelet.”

“But I just used the last egg—the girls brought only a
dozen. Twelve yolks for the cake. Twelve whites for
the meringue frosting.”

“Mercy on us!” said Miss Stewart. “Run back to the
store, Juana, and get some ham and all the eggs you can!”

Juana jumped nervously to do her bidding, jumped just
216 TALES OF BORINQUEN

in time to collide with Lola, who was carrying a big bowl.
There were two shrill screams, followed by a loud crash—
the first of the day—and the floor was a sticky, slippery
mass of unbeaten egg whites, with Lola sitting in the
middle of them!

During the excitement succeeding the irreparable acci-
dent no one noticed a strong odor of something scorching
which slowly permeated the air. Irma and Berta, return-
ing from the grocery, bending beneath the weight of a
huge basket containing cans of salmon, evaporated milk,
and fruit, perceived this odor even before they reached
the kitchen.

“What can it be?” cried Irma in alarm. Then, as they
entered, in spite of the confusion which met their gaze,
she had presence of mind to shriek above the uproar,
“Something is burning!” This effectually drew atten-
tion away from the egg whites. Everyone raised an in-
quiring nose.

“The potatoes!” screamed Miss Lorenzo, rushing fran-
tically to the stove, burning her fingers as she lifted the
lid off the kettle, and discovering with a sigh of relief
that the blessed potatoes were bubbling away in plenty of
water.

“But what is it? ‘The soup?”

“No, that is all right, too!”

Suddenly Sarita uttered a piercing cry and fled into dhe
sewing room, which she had abandoned at hearing the
crash in the kitchen. She was followed precipitately by
all. A fearful sight met their eyes. Indeed, something
was burning! Black smoke rose and filled the room with
its choking odor, proceeding from where the forgotten
electric iron rested on eight folds of the only banquet
TABLES TURNED 217

cloth possessed by the Home Economics Department of
Manati!

Sarita promptly went into hysterics. Miss Stewart
with an agonized cry dashed across the room, lifted the
offending iron, and staggered back, blinded by the in-
creased cloud of smoke which poured up into her eyes.
Gasping and with tears streaming down her face, she
managed a moment later to snatch the cloth, shake it out,
and display the full extent of the damage to the horrified
gaze of the onlookers. There were eight iron-shaped,
iron-sized, black and brown-rimmed holes gaping at them
from regular intervals in their beautiful embroidered
cloth!

Miss Lorenzo sank sobbing into a chair. Sarita con-
tinued to wail, while the others stood aghast at the enor-
mity of her neglect.

Miss Stewart was the first to regain her senses.
Coughing and sneezing, she managed to ask, “Can no one
bring a large table cloth from home?”

The girls hesitated. None of them came from wealthy
homes, and though their mothers had tablecloths, they did
not believe any of them were large enough to spread on a
table set for sixteen people.

“C-couldn’t we c-cover up th-the h-holes?” sobbed
Sarita.

“Hardly!” snapped Miss Stewart, who did not feel in
a very lenient mood towards the culprit. “I think the
only thing we can do is use a linen sheet and make it look
as pretty as possible with hibiscus flowers. Probably not
a man among them will guess it is not a table-cloth, as
men are not very observant of such things.”

“It is a quarter past twelve!” shrieked Miss Lorenzo
218 TALES OF BORINQUEN

suddenly. She rushed back into the kitchen, caught up
the bowl containing her belated cake, stirred for a mo-
ment like one possessed, poured it into a pan, and clapped
it into the oven.

Just as she finished this, Ana came in, looking very
crestfallen. “Teacher, there was no beefsteak.”

“I foresaw it! Run quickly to the grocery and tell
Juana to hurry back with the ham and eggs. We are
going to have ham omelet instead!”

Off sped Ana, after one open-mouthed look at Lola,
whose dress seemed to be congealed. No sooner was she
out of sight than the hurriedly summoned ice-man ar-
rived. He deposited his burden in a tub. Miss Lorenzo
set Lola and Maria to breaking it in a sack, while she pre-
pared the mixture for peach ice cream. The two girls fell
upon the ice so vigorously that the hapless Lola promptly
pounded her finger with the hammer. She began to
scream with the pain. Miss Lorenzo, now thoroughly
out of patience, did not regard the girl who had spilled
the eggs with much sympathy. She told her to go on
breaking the ice and forget her injury.

“Oh; oh, oh!’ wailed poor Lola. | “T cant! I can’t)
Look! My nail is turning black! Oh, it hurts! It
hurts!”

“Go home, then, Lola, for we have no time to act as
doctors and nurses here. Just look at my fingers! They
are cut and burned and bleeding and I am not crying like
a baby!”

Lola took a reproachful but hasty departure, and things
momentarily quieted down in the kitchen. Miss Lorenzo,
passing by the soup, took the occasion to salt it nicely.
The potatoes were nearly done. Maria was now turning
TABLES TURNED 219

the ice cream freezer as though her life depended on it,
very much frightened after the way Miss Lorenzo had
spoken to Lola, for Maria was the timid member of the
class. The girls in the other room, including sobbing
Sarita, were finishing laying the table, which really did
not look badly at all, with its bright centerpiece of red
flowers, tastefully arranged with an abundance of ferns.
They tried to comfort Sarita by telling her so, but she
could not be comforted.

Irma and Berta were filling the fruit cups with a mixture
of fresh oranges and canned pineapple and grapefruit
with a red cherry on top of each one. “As soon as you
finish, put them on the table,” directed Miss Lorenzo.
“They really look very tempting, and though they will not
be properly chilled, we cannot help it. Then put on
several dishes of olives with some cracked ice around
them. Fill the pitchers with ice water too. Well, things
are not going so badly, at last!”

But just as Miss Lorenzo uttered this hopeful remark,
Ana, who had been sent to look for Juana, and what was
more important, for the ham and eggs, returned alone and
empty-handed. “I could not find her anywhere, and the
storekeeper said she took some ham but that he was out of
eggs and had not sold her any!”

Miss Lorenzo looked speechlessly across at Miss Stew-
art, who was just finishing the large salmon loaf.

“Do not despair yet,” encouraged Miss Stewart, going
across the room to put the salmon loaf into the oven. A
moment later she exclaimed in a frightened, puzzled voice :
“Amalia, come here! Something seems to be wrong with
your cake!”

Miss Lorenzo hastened across the room and gave one
220 TALES OF BORINOQUEN

horrified look at the cake. “I forgot the baking powder!”

For a moment it seemed almost too much to bear, with
the beautiful cake, intended to crown the meal, lost to
them forever.

“Well, anyway, we have the ice cream,” comforted Miss
Stewart, though it was to be noted that even her voice had
lost much of its cheerfulness. “We can send to the
store for some little cakes in tin boxes.”

Miss Lorenzo laughed bitterly. “More cans!” was all
she said.

At this moment her attention was diverted by the ar-
rival of Juana, presenting a very weird and disheveled
appearance, with feathers tangled in her hair, her face
much streaked with dust, but triumphantly holding out a
basket of eggs. “Strictly fresh!” she gasped.

“Juana! What makes you look so strange? Where
did you get those eggs?”

*Out of the nests!”

“What nests?”

“Any I could find.”

“But where?”

“At different places.”

“Juana! You don’t mean that you stole those eggs!”

“Well, Miss Lorenzo, I didn’t exactly steal them. But
you know there were no eggs to be had in the store or
market either. There wasn’t time to go from house to
house and buy one egg here and another there, so I just
slipped into the chicken coops while the people were eating
their lunch, and took what eggs I could find, and I will
go back to all the places later and tell them and pay them.”

“Juana!” was all scandalized Miss Lorenzo was able to

gasp.
TABLES TURNED 221

“Do you remember all the places?” quickly asked Miss
Stewart.

“Yes, maam.”

“Well, then, I think it will be all right. Remember,
Amalia, this is for the reputation of the town as well as
the schools. The people will not mind when she explains.
This is an emergency. Juana did not steal the eggs; she
merely ‘requisitioned’ them, as they so often did supplies
during the World War!”

Miss Lorenzo looked doubtful but said nothing further
and, taking the eggs, began to break them into a bowl,
while Miss Stewart started shredding the ham that was
found in the bottom of loyal Juana’s basket.

“Even at best, it is a poor lunch, the poorest I ever
heard of,” wept Miss Lorenzo, summing up what re-
mained to them out of the wreck. “Fruit cup of oranges
and canned pineapple. Canned tomato soup” (at this,
well-meaning Juana, who had been filled with remorse
since she had caused the accident to the egg whites, hast-
ily salted the soup), “omelet with canned peas in it,
mashed potatoes, salad with more canned pineapple,
canned peach ice cream, and canned cakes and coffee with
canned milk, if they want milk!”

“You forgot the canned salmon,” reminded Miss Stew-
art somewhat tartly, for she really thought Amalia should
be more thankful that there was any lunch at all. “I
admit, my dear, it may not be ‘a feast to set before a king,’
but we can console ourselves that we have done our
best.” ;

“Forgive me, Mildred,” cried Miss Lorenzo. “I could
never have done it, but for your help! I place the entire
blame on that wretched Alejo!” she exclaimed unreason-
2232 TALES OF BORINQUEN

ably. “Had he been at his post, all this might have been
‘avoided !”

Miss Stewart was just about to defend Alejo by re-
marking that the luncheon would have been a “canned”
one just the same, whether the message arrived at eight
or eleven, since Alejo had nothing to do with the market
and stores, when there came a deafening crash, punctuated
by sounds of breaking glass and falling silver and agonized
screams and cries. There was no need even to look.
The noise was self-explanatory.

What the two old janitors had been trying to explain to
the uncomprehending American teacher was that the
broken table leg had not yet been repaired! And now
wretched Sarita, leaning across the laden table, anxious to
help by brushing away some of the ants which had been
emerging in a steady stream from the double hibiscus
blooms, had leaned on the weak place. Beneath her
weight the table had tipped and then fallen, bringing her
down with it and allowing everything to slide off on top
of her! The floor presented a bewildering mixture of
olives, flowers, ferns, juicy fruit; broken cups and glasses,
water, to say nothing of Sarita, who lay in the midst of
the wreck she had so innocently caused!

In the presence of this insurmountable disaster, every-
thing that had passed before shrank into insignificance,
while all that was to come was completely forgotten, with
the result that the potatoes burned, the salmon loaf baked
to a crisp, the soup (fortunately, because it had been
salted four times) boiled dry, the omelet fell. . . .

They aided Miss Lorenzo to the bed which was used
for demonstrations in the practical nursing class and
placed the screen before it. Several of her devoted
TABLES TURNED 225

pupils, with tears streaming down their cheeks, fanned
their poor teacher. ‘There, there, Miss Lorenzo, it was
not your fault! You did the best you could. They will
just have to go to the hotel for their luncheon. We will
tell them that you are ill or anything else you please.”

But Miss Lorenzo had nothing to say. She only wept.

In the meantime, Miss Stewart tried to comfort Sarita,
while she surveyed the wreck and grimly resolved to learn
Spanish before another month passed by. “But, oh, that
does not help us now! What shall we do?”

As if in answer to her thought, there came a loud knock
at the open door. Turning wildly, expecting to confront
the Commissioner with his guests behind him, she found
herself looking into the smiling face of Alejo. Alejo!
And smiling! How did he dare to come here? She
stared at him, in wide-eyed wonderment, scarcely observ-
ing that he was supporting himself on crutches. He
beckoned to her mysteriously, and she went towards
him.

“How goes the luncheon?” he whispered cautiously.

“The luncheon? It is ruined!” she whispered back
severely.

“And Amalia, where is she?” And the fellow actu-
ally had the audacity to smile as though he were enjoying
a good joke!

“Hush! Do not let her hear! She is furious with
you!”

“But I must see her at once! It is something very
important.”

Suddenly it occurred to Miss Stewart why Alejo had
come. She hastened to Miss Lorenzo. ‘“‘Alejo is here,”
she began in a low voice,
224 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“Tell him to go away!” moaned Miss Lorenzo in tones
which easily reached Alejo’s ears.

“But he says he must see you at once. It is something
very important. Oh, Amalia, I think he has received
word that they are not coming!”

“What!” and Amalia sat up suddenly.

“Yes! Do come at once!”

Amalia followed her with alacrity. Alejo entered the
room, making very good speed on the unaccustomed
crutches. All of the girls present watched him with bulg-
ing eyes and bated breath. “Oh, my poor Amalia!” he
cried, oblivious of his fascinated audience. “How you
must have suffered!” His gaze swept briefly over the
fallen feast in the middle of the floor and returned to her
white face. The scorched odors in the air but too plainly
told of the tragedies which lay in the kitchen. “Come
outside with me! I have something to show you.”

“But—but where is the telegram?” faltered Miss Lo-
renzo.

“The telegram? What telegram?”

“The one telling me that they are not coming!”

“But, Amalia, I do not have any such telegram!”

“Oh! Go away, then!” Amalia swayed with the
impact of this new shock.

Alejo dropped his crutches suddenly and, in spite of
the piercing pain in his foot, ran across the room and
caught her, to the immense joy of the girls, some of
whom could not help giggling. He became aware of
them, blushed, and said firmly, “Amalia, you must come
outside and see what I have to show you. Hurry! It
lacks only five minutes to one!”
TABLES TURNED 22%

Against her will she accompanied him, eagerly fol-
lowed by all the girls and Miss Stewart.

Quite a remarkable sight met their eyes. There was a
little procession of five of the high-school boys, each
loaded down with a heavy burden.

“Advance!” cried Alejo.

The first boy came forward, carrying a large flat basket,
its contents covered with banana leaves, which he swept
aside with a flourish. To the astonishment of the on-
lookers, in the basket nestled a number of beautiful yel-
low grapefruits, side by side with four large pineapples,
Next to these was part of a bunch of ripe bananas and,
lastly, eight of the finest bright-green aguacates, or alliga-
tor pears, ever seen.

“Pass on!” cried Alejo, enjoying the effect on his
speechless audience. “Advance!” he ordered the second
boy.

This boy also carried a large basket, covered with a
napkin, which he lifted carefully. There, to the amaze-
ment of all, was a large pottery dish, containing some-
thing, the top of which was tastefully decorated with
bright red pimentos.

“i Arroz con pollo!” shouted several of the girls in one
breath. Yes, wonder of wonders, that was what it was—
delicious rice and chicken cooked Porto Rican style.
And, scarcely a lesser miracle, next to it lay a long white
object which could be and was no other than an exquisite
heart of royal palm. There is nothing that makes better
salad! And still beyond this were arranged in order six-
teen pldtanos (plantains) undoubtedly baked to perfec-
tion ! ’
226 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“Pass on! Advance!” called Alejo, dismissing the
second and summoning the third and fourth boys, who
now came forward, carrying between them something
which looked very much like a stretcher bearing a small
child and covered with a white cloth. Alejo himself
limped forward and lifted the cloth, disclosing to the
ecstatic onlookers a succulent young roast pig, delightfully
browned—the most tempting edible they had ever beheld.

“Oh! Alejo! Where—" began Miss Lorenzo.

“Wait!” he commanded with a grand gesture. “Ad-
vance, dessert!”

With this, the two who carried the pig moved on, and
the fifth and last boy came forward, likewise with a
basket. Lifting off the top, he displayed sixteen luscious
ripe nisperos, or sapodillas as we call them, a big round
pound cake, and a huge dish ot something still smoking
hot—flan!—the delicious custard pudding without which
no banquet in this island can be complete!

“A typical Porto Rican feast! All ready to serve!
When in Porto Rico eat as the Porto Ricans do!” cried
Alejo, not realizing how his words hurt Miss Lorenzo,
who thought shame-facedly of the “American lunch” she
had planned to give her visitors. But she was too grate-
ful to say anything to Alejo, beyond thanking him
brokenly so many times that he became very much em-
barrassed. To hide his happiness he exclaimed, “Your
guests must be late, following another good old costumbre
del pais (custom of the country), else they would by this
time be here!”

Whereupon Alejo took charge of arranging the meal
he had brought. He ordered the cutting tables carried
out from the sewing room. “Just the thing!” he cried.
TABLES TURNED 237

“Put end to end, they will make a fine banquet table
right here under the flamboyant tree! What could be
prettier?” He next directed the boys to make a fire of
very small pieces of wood which would burn down quickly.
He himself cut the forked sticks to support the pig on the
wooden spit over the fire. He put the pldtanos into the
ashes. In less than half an hour the school yard took on
all the appearance of a country lechon asado, or pig-roast,
one of the most famous and picturesque local feasts!

During this time the air was full of inquiries. “Where
did the things come from? How did you accomplish it?”

“Wait! Wait!” laughed Alejo. “We are all too
busy for explanations now!”

And indeed this was so, for even though everything
was already cooked, there were duties enough to keep
everyone busy until the guests arrived. Miss Lorenzo
ran about, her cheeks bright red, a song of affection for
Alejo singing in her heart, and the light of forgiveness
in her eyes, which threatened to brim over with happy
tears at any moment. “How wonderful he is!” she said
again and again to herself as she directed the final ar-
rangement of the long table.

Once when Amalia passed close to Alejo, he mur-
mured, “Don’t tell your guests where the food came from.
Let them think it was your idea to give them a local cele-
bration. Please! You owe it to yourself after all you've
been through today!”

Amalia’s reply to this unselfish remark was a look so
full of gratitude and affection that Alejo temporarily
forgot the terrific pain in his foot, though everyone else
seemed to have forgotten it altogether, for there were
cries cf “Alejo!” here and “Alejo!” there every moment.
228 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Finally all was in readiness and the weary workers
stepped back to survey the pretty scene with entire satis-
faction and delight. There under the huge flame tree,
not in bloom now but lovely with lacy green leaves, stood
the long table covered with several sheets and gay with
ferns and hibiscus flowers. What difference if there were
a few ants now? Everyone expects ants at a picnic!
Nearby, so that all could see the interesting sight, the
roasted pig on the spit was turned slowly over and
over in the customary manner by one of the boys. In-
side, keeping warm in the oven, was the arroz con pollo,
while on the table at one end rested the cake, and at the
other the diced heart of palm in a container like a small
trough made of half its own green outer covering. At
each place stood a cup of delicious fresh native fruit, and
sixteen chairs were neatly drawn up to the table. The
admiration was keen, and everyone secretly felt that this
outdoor picnic was a great improvement on the luncheon
as originally planned. The visitors from the United
States would have something very unique to tell their
families and friends, for doubtless there was not one of
them who had ever been to a pig-roast in his life.

As they stood there, in the first moment of relaxation
they had known since the arrival of the telegram, Miss
Lorenzo begged Alejo to tell them how he had performed
this miracle. But he had no more than opened his mouth,
when through the gate there came a spectacle at once.
alarming, pathetic, and funny. At first glance this ap-
proaching figure seemed to be a large laundress, deliver-
ing some clothes in a very peculiar state. For both the
fat laundress and the wildly clutched clothes, which stuck
out in all directions as well as trailed on the ground be-
TABLES TURNED 229

hind her, bore striking evidence of having recently tum-
bled into a mud puddle! As the dripping figure came
nearer, they could see that she was rent with terrible sobs,
while the tears streaming from her eyes washed long
rivulets in the mud which disguised her countenance.
Miss Lorenzo was first to come to her senses and recog-
nize the culprit.

“Obdulia!” she screamed. “What on earth. has hap-
pened to you?”

Obdulia! She who had gone for the six white dresses
of the waitresses! And those horrible muddy garments
she held so fiercely were the once stiffly starched white
dresses! Amidst wails and protests from the owners,
she managed to gasp out her tale of woe.

“You—you t-told me to h-hurry! I did and g-got all
the d-dresses, b-but wh-when I was c-coming back—"" here
she became so choked with grief that she had to be slapped
soundly on the back.

“A-a big ox was in the st-street. And it was going
to ch-chase me” (“Going to chase!” sniffed several of her
classmates in undisguised contempt) “s-so I r-ran and—
and I f-fell in the m-mud, and—"

But at this point there came a loud sound of motor
klaxons, and several cars drew up outside the gate of the
school yard. Heavens! The visitors had arrived. “Get
out of sight, quick, Obdulia! We won’t need white
dresses to serve a picnic anyway!” Puffing and sobbing,
Obdulia disappeared within the kitchen, while Miss Lo-
renzo advanced with what composure she could command
to welcome the visiting gentlemen.

Many exclamations of pleasure followed their entrance
into the attractive yard, as they caught sight of the picnic
230 TALES OF BORINQUEN

so enticingly spread. The Commissioner drew Miss Lo-
renzo aside and complimented her on carrying out so
original an idea. “Nothing could be finer,” he said,
“than to have our guests learn some of the quaint local
customs, devised by our ancestors and still beloved by us.”

Miss Lorenzo was pleased and ashamed at the same
time for receiving praise that was not her due. “Oh,
Don Juan, thank you, very much! Some other time I
must tell you all about it,” she said softly, that Alejo
might not hear.

At last the visitors were seated and the members of the
class were flying about serving them the appetizing viands
which had so miraculously appeared.

Miss Lorenzo was alone for a moment in the kitchen,
making the coffee. Alejo found her there. “Amalia!”

“Oh, Alejo! Do tell me where you found it all?”

“I went out to the big pig-roast at the Palomita Central
and made them give up one of their pigs and part of their
feast!”

“Alejo! How did you dare?”

“Listen, dear, they had four pigs and no end of food!
The idea came to me as soon as I sent you the telegram,
but I did not dare to come here with any mere suggestions.
I knew that I must offer some substantial reparation if I
were ever to win another smile from you! As to how I
could dare, oh, Amalita, don’t you understand that if
there had been only one pig, I would have secured it some-
how and brought it just the same. I would dare any-
thing for you, because I love you!”

A very mournful, very muddy, and entirely disgraced
young lady, crouching in a corner and forgotten, stirred
slightly at overhearing this and began to think that life
TABLES TURNED 231

 

Preparing for a pig-roast

has its compensations. Perhaps her friends would for-
give her for her awful blunder when she imparted this
wonderful bit of news to them. She strained her inno-
cent ears, unaware in her eagerness that she was com-
mitting the sin of eavesdropping. She peeped out from
beneath what had once been six pretty white dresses.

Miss Lorenzo’s face was quite pink all over, and she
had stopped measuring the coffee.

“Oh, Amalita, I did not mean to ask you now—here
with no moon, no music—only a dirty kitchen! But I
cannot wait! Sweetheart, do you love me? Do you,
Amalia? Will you marry me? Please! Please!”

And to the incredible delight of the forlorn creature in
the corner, Miss Lorenzo replied out of the fullness of
her grateful heart, even more firmly than was necessary,
292 TALES OF BORINQUEN

with a firmness, in fact, which startled her own ears not
a little, “Ves! Oh, yes, Alejo!”

How awful! She had meant to be so different in case
he ever did ask her. She had meant to be undecided, shy,
retiring. . . . How ashamed she was! What would
he think of her? Bold? Forward? Immodest? She
dared not look at him.

But far from thinking any of these, Alejo was simply
taking an instant to recover from the first surging shock
of joy. At this moment, uttering a muffled exclamation
which sounded like, “Amalia, darling!” he bent to kiss his
betrothed, at least it is to be supposed that is what he did,
for suddenly the unseen spectator was overcome by her
boldness and, blushing hotly under the coating of drying
mud, hastily burrowed down into the pile of wilted
dresses. .

But, just the same, Obdulia was the only one who later
was able to give the authentic reason why, when the
wonder ful picnic was coming to an end, there was not so
much as a drop of coffee ready to serve to the sixteen
distinguished guests!
EL YUNQUE

(THE ANVIL MOUNTAIN)

THE PEASANT.

It is very high and vast—our anvil mountain.

Every day it gathers rain-clouds to its brow

So it can send fresh rivers coursing down to moisten our
rich soil.

Few men have fastened homes upon its wooded slopes,

For no one cares to live within such steep and tangled
solitudes.

It is pleasant to glance up at now and then

While toiling long hot hours in the cane-fields.
It is our playground during holidays;

And from its summit we can view on either hand
A mighty sea and all our native land at once!

I have had many a friend come and go—
But the mountain is always there.

THE PAINTER:

Day after day the beauty of the anvil mountain baffles me,
Forever changing as it is, beneath a fitful sky. . . .

At noonday it is often a pastel.
Seen through a flowering vermilion arch,

It lies a mystic hill of many shimmering, soft, and blending
shades

Against an irisated sky.
233
234 TALES OF BORINQUEN

In storm it is an oil.

Wearing the awesome murky gray of thunder-clouds,

It frowns down on the patchwork fields

Which stretch along the wind-swept countryside;

And in the foreground trumpet trees bend toward the west.

At evening it is an ancient, sharp-lined print on thin rice-
paper :

Silvered water in the fore;

And then a dark-green strip of palms

Bordering the vast mauve-blue mountain,

With pearl-gray clouds atop—one tinged with rose.

THE SCIENTIST:

What cosmic forces raised yon geologic pile,

Which so outvies with its imposing bulk

Man's most ambitious monument ?

What secrets of all ages past lie buried in its heart?

Some people dream of cataclysmic times,

When masses such as that were churned and cast up from
a molten earth

And took fantastic shapes in hardening.

And others show me coral rocks and fossils of the deep

Found on its very top,

And beg of me in fear to tell them that the sea will never
rise so high again.

But how can I assure them anything?

For even should I take my tools,

Go there and delve and tap day in, day out,
In lifelong search for truth,

I would but bring to light new wonders
Leading ever into vaster questionings,
EL YUNQUE 235

And yet no nearer to the Ultimate!

Then I would die,

And afterwards, admiring from afar,

No one would even see where I had worked

And left my feeble scar upon the mountain’s loveliness.

THE POET.

Great steel-blue mountain, strangely cast,

Do I fathom then its meaning?

It stands with base firm-set in depths of earth,

And smoky clouds, from everlasting forge-fires of the
heavens,

Trail round its heights to mask portentous labors.

It is the Anvil where the gods,

With rumblings as of thundering,

Beat long, and wield, and shape to their desires
The adamantine destiny of men!

THE DIVINE:

Look you upon that mighty work of God,

Where He has built an altar for your devotions

Among your {fertile fields. . . .

Nearer to Heaven than we, are the far blue reaches of the
mountain.

Lift, then, your eyes to its solemn grandeur ;

Take joy from its beauty ;

Learn faith from its steadfastness,

And find peace in its perpetual security.
DIEGO

Diego was far from home, and he was homesick ; worse,
he had been so for more than fifty years! Poor old
Diego, fifty years away from the blessed heat, the ceru-
lean skies, the beautiful flame trees, the whispering palms,
the soft south sea, the quaint little town, the gentle priests,
the pleasant friends, the sunny plazas, the gay horse
races, the thrilling cock fights, the musical Spanish tongue,
the mist-blue mountains, in a word, the enchanted island
—Porio Rico! Fifty years . . . . Poor old homesick
Diego!

By four-thirty in the afternoon it was nearly dark on
that raw January day. Inside the shoe factory all the
high-power and unshaded electric lights were already
burning, casting a sickly pallor over the weary faces of
the hundreds of swift-fingered workers, deepening the
effect of premature night outside, and tinging the murky
upper air of the huge machine room a chill and hazy blue.
Everyone looked just a bit more haggard than usual, and
lustreless eyes furtively wandered, more often than ordi-
narily, towards the smoky-white face of the unhurrying
clock. There was a distinct Saturday air of awareness
that in a half hour the week's work would be over, with
neat little envelopes waiting for everyone at the pay-
master’s window. Even the machines whirred with a
tired sound, as though anxious for their Sunday's

rest: sv.
236
DIEGO 237

The only one seemingly unmindful of the hour was a
stoop-backed, white-haired janitor, who moved cease-
lessly among the cutting-tables, sweeping up the scraps
of pungent smelling leather that everlastingly fell. For
the manager of this factory was an efficiency man who
required that everything be as neat as possible at all

 

 

The rustling coconut palms.

times. Automatically old Diego moved along, automat-
ically he swept the curly little brown scraps into his dust-
pan. Sometimes the monotonous brown would be re-
lieved by a shred of pink waxed-paper or a tiny ball of
tinfoil, as one of the factory girls surreptitiously partook
of a piece of chewing gum or a bit of chocolate.

Diego swept on without stopping, for he had long since
ceased to mistake the gleam of mere tinfoil for a lost
trinket or coin. On and on and round and round he
went, without even thinking of what he was doing, so
238 TALES OF BORINQUEN

many millions of scraps had he pushed into his dust pan
during the last five years. There had been a time when
the dreams that were in his heart had interfered with his
work. But frequent admonishments and threats of dis-
missal from the nervous foreman, anxious to be as effi-
cient as his manager, had cured Diego’s habit of leaning
absent-mindedly on his broom. He did not stop dream-
ing, but he learned to dream while sweeping.

Today his thoughts were so deep, so slumbrous, so far
away that he was not even aware of the shrill siren whis-
tle, and was only recalled from his vision of sunshine
~ sparkling on palms to the dreary present, when hurrying
workers began to stumble over his broom. “Closing
time,” he thought. Then, “SATURDAY!” His heart
leaped, and he hastened towards the janitor’s room where
with trembling hands he removed his baggy blue overalls
and put on his ragged and thin black overcoat, reflecting
once again that he needed a new and warmer one, for
Chicago is a harsh, cold city in the winter. Then he
smiled suddenly and a warmth that came from no outward
source flooded his tired old body. He would not need a
new overcoat, nor any overcoat at all for very much
longer, nor new gloves either, nor the fur-lined cap he had
wistfully observed in a haberdasher’s window, for where
he was going all he would wear would be a cool linen
suit and a straw hat! Sprightly as a boy was old Diego
going towards the paymaster’s window and taking his
place silently at the end of the long and clamorous line
formed before it. Two girls came up behind him. With
quaint courtesy he moved to make way for them.

“Keep your place, Don Diego,” laughed one of them,
who was Irish, but with her laugh was mingled a note of
DIEGO 239

pity. “Sure and ye have been livin’ these many years in
this country and ye ain’t learnt the equality of women
yet!”

“In my country, Seforita,” replied Diego in halting
English but with dignity, “gentlemen stand behind the
ladies always.”

“An’ with that you're castin’ a slight on Ireland!” she
cried gaily and added, seeing that he did not understand,
“True it is, Don Diego, that in other parts of the world
there is courtesy and chivalry to burn. But not here!
Not here, for it’s too busy we all are, to be courteous in
workin’ hours. Take your place an’ keep it, an’—"’ she
stopped, for just then two more girls had come up and
Diego was four places away.

“Is there an equal to him?” the merry Irish girl asked
her friend. “It’s standin’ all day an’ workin’ he has been,
an’ look at him! His supper will be cold all right this
night, an’, by the dreamy look that’s in his eye, I doubt
if he gets home at all,” she added, for Diego’s far-away
expression had returned.

“I think you're an equal to him, Mary, joking at the
end of a week like this one!” exclaimed her friend bit-

terly.
“Four hundred and ten dollars and seventy-five cents
plus five dollars and thirty-five cents . . .” Diego was

laboriously adding his bank account in his head.

When finally the old man reached the revolving outer
door, he hesitated a moment in the vestibule and drew
a deep tremulous breath before going out. For the
moment which each day he most dreaded was at hand—
that when he must step forth into the bitter cold. His
very bones shrank before the ordeal. - Not, he was sure,
240 TALES OF BORINQUEN

if he remained in this city a hundred years, would he ever
become accustomed to the rigor of its winter winds, which
rushed into his lungs, torturing him like icy knives. Oh,
but the heat was going to be a fine thing! Outside some
unshaded, whitewashed wall he intended to sit and bask
in the burning sunlight for the rest of his life. . . .

This night the blast smote him more cruelly even than
was its custom and greatly impeded his halting progress
along the slippery street. He must hurry, too, for his
granddaughter, Lucy, would be very angry if he were
late for supper. His granddaughter Lucy! Somehow
the thought of her added just a bit more chill to the freez-
ing night. How strange it was that after all the years
of family love and affection he should finally be forced
by circumstances to make his home with this unsympa-
thetic young woman of a different race!

“Santa Claus! Santy!” cried two boys as Diego passed
under a street light, for the season was still reminiscent
of Christmas, and the white beard and hair of the old
man recalled to them the kindly saint. But Diego did
not hear them, for his mind had once more slipped back
through the years. His two comforts against cold, weari-
ness, and sorrow were always the same—memory of the
land of his youth and a determination to return there be-
fore he died. In an instant the wind-swept street, the
grimy snow drifts, the winter itself had vanished, and old
Diego was a boy once more, playing with his friends in
the sunny plaza of San Juan. How well he remembered
them all. First there was Jorge, to whom he had written
faithfully until the news of his death had come more than -
twenty years ago. He would be very sad not to meet
Jorge at his belated homecoming. The anticipated sun-
DIEGO 241

light would be a trifle dimmed by that loss. And Ramon,
Paco, and Benjamin had also passed beyond even before
Jorge. . . . But so far as he knew, though he had not
communicated with them for many years, there would
still be Carlos, Juanito, Luis. . . . His eyes twinkled at
thoughts of the tremendous surprise he was going to give
them. The rascals! True, their backs were doubtless
bent, their eyes a trifle blurred, their hair whitened by the
relentless years, but that was as it should be. What happy
times the old fellows would have together, sitting in the
peaceful plaza, dreamily exchanging reminiscences all day
long. . . . Oh, but the quiet, the warmth, the friendliness
of that little town were going to be agreeable to tired old
Diego after all these years in this turbulent metropolis of
the north where, as the Irish working girl said, there was
scarcely time even to be courteous.

And then perhaps he and Carlos and Juan and Luis
would stroll slowly, very slowly, for there would be no
need to hurry, down to the Marina to watch the ships
come in, just as they had done so long ago. Those white-
sailed ships from all over the world—how they had fasci-
nated Diego in his youth; so much so that one day, unable
longer to resist their lure, he had bade his friends fare-
well and had sailed away to make his fortune in the north-
land, from which he promised to return shortly, success-
ful and wealthy. But fifty-two years had passed since
then! Fifty-two years of struggle and hardship, and
with fortune always just beyond his reach.

Diego remembered how once, just once, he had held the
passage money in his hand, debating eagerly with himself
as to what course to follow. His heart and soul cried
out for him to return to his native land. But his mind
242 TALES OF BORINQUEN

counseled otherwise: “You cannot return yet and bear
the ridicule of your friends. Where is the success, the
wealth you boasted of? They will mock you. Stay!
You are young. You have been away only two years.
Next year, or the next at the most, and you will be able
to return in triumph!” and sick of heart and soul he had
listened to these cheerless counsels and heeded them.

Then he had decided that it was his utter loneliness that
was keeping him from his goal. He would send the pas-
sage money to his sweetheart. She had promised to come
if he would send for her. Together they could accom-
plish what he had failed to do alone. That was it! He
needed the companionship, the understanding sympathy,
the language of one of his own people to help him along
the difficult way in this strange land. So he had sent
the money and she had come, laughing, young, pretty,
as full of hope as he was.

But fortune had failed to smile on them.

On had crept the winter bringing hard times with it.
And then to young Diego and his wife had come a great
happiness—their first son. The father was now deter-
mined to win his way to success for the sake of this tiny
lad. But before he had achieved his goal, came a little
sister, Maria, for small Benito. How hard he and
Mamita had to work then! Mamita, or “little mother,”
as he now called his wife, as he called her until the day
she died.

So time passed, and with each year their high hope of
returning to Porto Rico grew dimmer and dimmer. For
more children came, and the rigorous law of the land com-
pelled these hard-working people to keep all their boys and
girls in school, while the even more rigorous weather com-
DIEGO 243

pelled them to keep their children and themselves well
fed and warmly clothed and housed. Through the sad
loss of one of their babies by pneumonia they learned the
fate awaiting those who even slightly disobeyed the natural
law of that exacting clime.

The children grew, used to different customs from those
their parents had known in their youth, speaking a dif-
ferent tongue, and finally marrying, all of them, among
their American friends. Maria, the eldest daughter of
Diego, married George Turner. They named their first
son Baird. Then Maria and George had been stricken
during one of those awful winter plagues of influenza
which sometimes sweep the country, and after they died,
young Baird came to live with his grandfather and little
old Mamita. Diego and Mamita reared the boy, happy
in doing it, for one after the other their own sons and
daughters had spread far and wide throughout the vast
country in search of opportunity.

Then came the place where Diego’s memory faltered,
the dark day from which it shrank—for that was the day
Mamita, the faithful little mother, had passed away,
leaving poor Diego broken-hearted and alone once more
in a country which, after all his years spent there, was
still strange to him. He was the more stricken when he
reproached himself for never having been able to carry
out his promise to his wife—to take her back to the trop-
jcal land ‘of their enchanted youth. . . . Her dying
words, whispered out of her beautiful, unselfish heart
at the very last had been, “;Que vuelvas, Diego mio!”
“Return, my Diego!’ Then Diego used part of the
money they had saved to return together, to bury her
with instead, and on her wintry grave he lavishly scat-
244 TALES OF BORINQUEN

tered roses he could ill afford while his heart suffered
as he recalled her eagerness to return to the land of con-
stant flowers.

That was about six years ago, but the pain of it had
not lessened. Shortly after Mamita’s death, Baird Tur-
ner had married, and naturally he could not turn out of his
home the old man who had been both father and grand-
father to him all these years. But the new granddaugh-
ter, Lucy, had not welcomed the idea of looking after
such an aged person.

“If he stays here, he must work,” he had finally de-
creed, and she herself had secured Diego his place as
janitor in the big shoe factory; and it was she who each
week took his pay envelope and, with a toss of her pretty
head, divided its contents in thirds—two for herself and
one for the old man. Diego made never a word of pro-
test, for he had long ceased to be surprised at anything.
But with a catch in his heart he recalled the kindly custom
of his homeland which allowed the oldest relative a loving
home as long as he might live, not only without question
but with real joy. Well, he must not grieve over his lot.
Rather he must thank the kindly Providence that was al-
lowing him to return to such a beautiful place to die. . . .
There would be everlasting sunshine, there would be Juan,
Luis, Carlos. . . . So his thoughts went round in an
eternal circle of memory and anticipation, and in this way
he arrived at the door of the house which, he sadly re-
flected, never opened to him with hearty welcome. But
he had done his feeble best not to incommode anyone, and
soon, soon now he would be going away.

Softly he pushed open the door and the breath of
warmth which rushed out was cheering to him, but the
DIEGO 248

next moment he heard that which froze his heart. Shrill
words were coming from the lighted room at the end of
the dark hall. Diego could not help hearing them, though
his soul protested at their import. His granddaughter,
Lucy, was saying: “—and I will not stand it for another
day. This ugly house, this poor neighborhood, these hor-
rible clothes! TI will not! They are not what you prom-
ised me! And the hard, hard work! It is killing me!
It is that old man—he is the cause of everything. All he
does is eat up our money. He is always in the way.
He—"

“Lucy!” It was Baird protesting.

But she paid no attention to him. “And the money he
has saved! He is an old miser, I tell you. And any
day he might get sick and I would have to take care of
him. TI will not have him here another day unless he
gives us that money. He owes it to us after all we've
done!”

“But he does give us most of his money each week!”

“It is not enough! What does he need with all that
money in the bank, anyhow? It belongs to us!”

“But, Lucy,” cried her husband, horrified, “would you
be so cruel as to touch a penny of ‘grandfather’s fund’ ?”

“I certainly would touch it! What I have never been
able to understand is why you have humored him about
it for so long. It is ridiculous to think that a man as
old and {feeble as he is could ever start out alone and
travel all the way to Porto Rico!”

“But, Lucy, that is the precious money he has been
putting aside for years. Poor old man! He has always
been so generous that when anyone really needed any
money, he has lent it out of his savings, and that is why
246 TALES OF BORINQUEN

he has never been able to accumulate enough for the
journey. But don’t you understand how his heart is set
on going? It would kill him now if he thought he could
never go. Oh, we cannot touch his money!”

Tears welled in Diego's eyes as he heard Baird come
to his defense. But another sound arrested his atten-
tion. His granddaughter had now resorted to that most
effective of women’s arguments—tears. Old Diego be-
gan to tremble violently there in the dark. Was he going
to lose his money? Was it true that they had only been
humoring him all this time and did not really believe that
he ever would or could go back to Porto Rico? The
thought was simply too terrible. He felt the strength
going out of him, and it seemed as though he would slip
to the floor, but the next words of Lucy brought him up-
right with a shudder. “Just as soon as he comes home
tonight, I am going to tell him and stop this nonsense once
and for all. He must have five hundred dollars! What
in the world does he need with so much? With five hun-
dred dollars we could—"

But Diego heard no more. Out of his great fear was
born a momentous resolve. As silently as he had en-
tered, he opened the front door and stole out into the bit-
ing cold once more...

A little icy blast swept into the room where Baird and
Lucy were, and Baird shivered, more with apprehension
than with chill. Well he might do so, for search as they
would in the vast city during the ensuing days, the young
man and his repentant wife could not find a trace of their
grandfather. . .

How Diego secured his meager savings, how he found
his way to the immense Union Station and boarded the
DIEGO 247

right train for New York, he hardly knew. He was
feverish, and every breath he drew was pain, due to his
long exposure to the terrific cold. As the train rumbled
through the night, a slumbrous numbness crept over the
old man who had not lavished money for the comforts of
a sleeping car. Huddled in one of the sooty red plush
seats of the day coach, his threadbare overcoat wrapped
around him, he forced himself to keep awake the whole
night through and fought off the illness that seemed urg-
ing him to succumb. Now that he was really started,
he was resolved «that nothing should keep him from his
objective. In the midst of his misery of weariness, cold,
timidity, and sickness, his heart alone retained a spark
of warmth and cheer, kept alive by the constantly re-
iterated thought: “I am going home! I am going
home! I am going back to Porto Rico at last! Gracias
a Dios, T am going home!” And with the thought there
flashed across his mind a vivid picture of the beautiful
island which awaited him at the end of his arduous jour-
ney.

Diego saw San Juan as he had left it half a century
before: a small, picturesque Spanish town, built on a
coral island beside a broad and friendly bay, where the
water was always tranquil and blue. He could see the
ancient, yellow walls of huge Morro Castle, which guarded
the entrance to the harbor, where several tall-masted
schooners always rode at anchor. He could remember
the gigantic sea wall, nearly three centuries old, encircling
the entire pueblo in a friendly, protective way. He saw
La Fortaleza, handsome white palace of the Governor-
General, with the red and gold Spanish flag waving over
it.
248 TALES OF BORINQUEN

He saw the blue sky and the sunlight shining on red-
tiled roofs of Spanish houses, ancient even when he was
born. In his imagination he walked once more through
the narrow cobblestone streets, aware of the pretty seno-
ritas behind the half-open persiennes, while no noisy and
dangerous automobiles spoiled the tranquillity of his con-
versations with his friends. At the base of towering
Fort San Cristobal he could see the Santiago gate, the
drawbridge, and the moat over which he used to pass on
holidays into the open country just beyond, where flour-
ished the vast groves of rustling coconut palms. A pleas-
ant vision was that which kept old Diego alive on his
strenuous journey through the coldest winter night of the
year. “Back, back, back,” the wheels seemed to chant in
their interminable rapid rhythm on the cold, steel tracks.
“Back, back, back, you are going back. . . .”

As the gray dawn slowly lightened the dreary winter
landscape, old Diego revived a little and suddenly thought
in a panic of his arrival in New York. It had been so
many, many years since he had landed there that he had
no idea what to do, where to go. His one aim had been
to escape from Chicago, from his granddaughter who
wanted to take his precious money so that he could never
return to Porto Rico. But now he wondered if he would
be able to get there after all. He felt as weak and help-
less as a child. The sleepy-eyed conductor came walking
through the train and looked with compassion upon the
aged man who had had to sit crumpled up in an uncom-
fortable seat all through the night. Diego’s face bright-
ened as he saw this official, and in his quavering, broken
English he asked him how one would find a boat for
Porto Rico.
DIEGO 249

“Where?” asked the conductor, not believing he had
heard aright.

“Porto Rico,” repeated Diego patiently, uttering the
two words softly and lovingly.

“I'm not sure how one would get there,” remarked the
conductor, “and it surprises me that an old gentleman like
you should be going all alone to such a distant place, and
in the middle of winter, at that!”

“That's the very reason,” cried Diego. “There it 1s
warm all the time. There the sun always shines. 1 am
going away forever from this cold country.”

The conductor regarded him sadly. It was apparent
that the poor old man was soon going on a long jour-
ney, but it would be one from which he could never re-
turn.

)

“I am sorry I cannot help you,” he said, “but when
we reach New York I will call a porter to take you to the
information desk in the station, and they will tell you what
to do and where to go.”

So, somehow, by the help and pity of those he spoke
with, old Diego got through the terrible city, found the
boat that would take him home, and at last was safely
on board. The cold was intense, and Diego at once lay
down in his berth, tortured by the increasing pain in his
chest and half delirious from the fever which now had
come upon him more strongly than ever. But when a
knock sounded at the door, he started up, unwilling that
anyone should think him ill and perhaps prevent him
from making the trip.

It was the steward looking for his ticket. “We have
started,” he informed Diego in Spanish, and oh, the
music of that sound and the wonder of those words!
250 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“And already we are at sea?” queried Diego with such
eagerness that the other stared at him.

“We are fast getting there,” replied the steward and
asked wonderingly, “Why are you so anxious?”

“Because, Sefior,” replied Diego respectfully but with
tears in his eyes, “I am a Porto Rican, and I have been
away from my native island for over fifty years.”

“Fifty years?” the steward shouted in his amazement.
Fifty years! Why, that was more time than he had lived.

“Yes, Sefior,” repeated Diego. “I did not remain away
from choice but from necessity. For fifty years my hea. :
has ached to return, and now I am on my way!” he
finished with such a radiant light of happiness on his
wrinkled countenance that the steward, who was hardened
to touching scenes of farewell, felt the sympathetic tears
sting his own eyes, long dry. Unable to speak, he
grasped the old man's hand, silently promising to be his
friend and look after him during the voyage. ‘Lie
down, now,” he said finally, as though he were speaking
to a child. “You look tired. TI will bring you some hot
soup.”

Old Diego's gratitude was wordless. It had been long
since he had been treated with such fine, polite considera-
tion. But he must remember that he was returning to
Porto Rico, the land of kindness and courtesy.

The steward hurried to find the ship's doctor, for he
was greatly alarmed over the appearance of the aged pas-
senger. When the doctor went in to examine Diego, he
was much puzzled. He could see that the tired eyes were
bright with fever, and he could feel the pulse fluttering
with weakness, while it was not difficult to tell that Diego
was ill by the rasping sound of his breathing. Yet he
DIEGO 251

was sitting up in his berth in spite of all this, looking as
happy as a boy on a holiday. He didn’t need any doc-
tors, not he, for was he not going HOME? And that
was the best medicine in the world!

“He is ill,” said the doctor to the steward, “but there
seems to be some mysterious force sustaining him.”

“It 1s hope,” murmured the other.

And thus, upheld by his joyous anticipation, old Diego
was borne by the great steamship out of the ice-bound,
dreary zone of winter into the realm of eternal sunshine.
On the third day those eyes, weary to death of somber
northern skies, opened to see a shaft of brilliant sunlight
pouring in at the porthole. With new life flooding him,
Diego arose for the first time, slowly dressed, and crept
out into a radiant world, where the sea lay calm and blue
arched by a sky unbelievably clear. And warm, caress-
ingly warm, was the sunshine which Diego let pour over
him as though to thaw the ice of fifty winters from his
blood! All day long he lay in his steamer chair basking
in that wonderful heat, refusing to be moved into the
shade. All around him he heard his native tongue, rapid,
musical, animated, elixir to his homesick spirit. . . .
Such happiness was his on that day and the next as he
had not believed would come to him again in his life. .

Then dawned the day of landing; but the sun was not
up before Diego! In the small hours of the morning he
was out on the forward deck, all alone beneath the tropical
heavens, straining his eyes for the first sign of land.
Were they also stars, those lights which twinkled in a
long mass on the far-off horizon? No, they must be the
lights of San Juan! Electric lights! Strange that Diego
had not counted on electricity, for he remembered San
252 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Juan as lighted by flickering oil lamps. He was disap-
pointed that anything at all should be changed. He
sighed a little. But, of course, he must expect differ-
ences! Porto Rico had not been standing still while the
rest of the world progressed. Yet, in his heart, he hoped
there had not been too many changes, for he wanted his
San Juan to be as he remembered it, as he had longed for
it in his dreams, as he had seen it for years in his visions.
Poor old Diego!

Now the sky was paling, and dimly he made out the
never-to-be-forgotten contour of El Yunque, the great
Anvil Mountain, which stands on everlasting guard off to
the southeast of San Juan, a lovely blue, cloud-topped
background for the city. Diego rubbed his eyes. How
was it possible that there could be so many lights as he
now saw? Was San Juan so large? He remembered
it as quite a small place. Why, it seemed as though the
whole shore for several miles was lighted. If he were
not mistaken, there were lights where only open country
and palm groves had been before.

Then, straight across the dark blue sea, vast, strong,
and enduring as the day it was finished centuries ago, there
loomed the familiar bulk of Morro Castle. Diego leaned
weakly against the rail. His heart seemed to cease beat-
ing for a moment and then nearly suffocated him with
the tremendous surge it gave, as the realization that at
last he was nearly home smote full upon his understand-
ing. Old Diego began to tremble violently, and the false
strength which had upheld him for days began to desert
him, just when he needed it most, to face the ordeal of
going ashore. But the steward, looking in to rouse his
venerable passenger and not finding him, had hurried out
DIEGO 253

on deck and had just come upon him as near the prow
of the vessel as it was possible to stand, in a seeming effort
to reach out for the shores of Borinquen before the ship
itself should arrive at them. Noting the pallor and weak-
ness of Diego, the steward grasped his arm and said
firmly, “Come with me to take some coffee, for you are
going to need all your strength.”

Diego complied with reluctance, because he did not
wish to lose one particle of the joy of this day which he
had dreamed of so long, but which in the very hour of
its realization seemed likely to overwhelm him. So tur-
bulent were the emotions which now surged through the
old man that he could scarcely walk. It was with a shak-
ing hand that he held the reviving coffee to his lips and
then insisted that he return to the deck. The steward
saw that he was comfortably seated in a steamer chair
and then perforce went about the multitude of duties
which always claimed his time on the morning of arrival.

The ship had now drawn nearer the island. The sun
had risen with that suddenness which Diego had so often
recalled with longing on sluggish winter mornings, when
the night seemed to take half the morning to make its
reluctant withdrawal. He could better make out El
Morro and San Cristobal forts, with the mighty crenelated
bridge of the sea wall between. But what was that other
enormous gleaming white building with its magnificent
dome a little farther down the coast? Why, it was out-
side the city wall, beyond the Santiago gate and the moat,
on that part of San Juan island where goats and cows
had once been led to pasture! And all the other houses
and buildings which seemed to stretch interminably along
the eastern shore? Had San Juan grown to be a city
254 TALES OF BORINQUEN

as large as Chicago itself? Diego grew cold with alarm.
Why had this contingency never occurred to him? With
gratitude he brought his gaze back to old San Juan upon
its lofty coral isle, glad to recognize familiar landmarks,
such as the rusty-black dome of the ancient Seminary
and the old Spanish buildings along the water-front high
above the bastioned sea wall. Below lay the cemetery,
so much more crowded with crosses than Diego remem-
bered it that he was forcibly reminded how many of his
friends must have made their final journey there.

Now they were entering the harbor between El Morro
and the island of Cabras. High on the left stood Casa
Blanca and nestling at its base Casa Rosa. Then there
was La Fortaleza. And over all of these Diego saw the
American flag waving, for even the Spanish-American
war had been fought and nigh forgotten since he had been
away. The ship proceeded around the jutting bend of the
Marina. Then it was that the old man had his greatest
view of the changes that awaited him. For all along the
harbor front the sea wall, so high and thick that it seemed
it must outvie even time itself in its endurance, was
gone, disappeared as though it had never been! Jutting
into the water were pier after pier where none had been
before, all with passenger steamers and freighters pulled
up importantly at their sides! As for the view of the
city itself, from this point it was so changed that Diego
would never have recognized it. He was dismayed to see
a skyline of modern buildings, so tall that they were
nearly worthy to be called skyscrapers, and all constructed
in the familiar style of practical architecture which for so
many years had wearied Diego’s eyes, longing for a
glimpse of graceful Spanish arches and friendly, flower-
DIEGO 255

adorned balconies. . . . Were it not for the bright, hot
sunshine, the clear blue sky, and the babble of Spanish all
about him, the old man would have been sure he had mis-
taken his way and had sailed into some unfamiliar port.

 

 

La Fortaleza, where for centuries the governors of Porto
Rico have resided.

He dreaded now, rather than wished, to leave the ship.
What business had he in this strange city? Weak from
surprise and disappointment, he remained in the long
chair. The decks were crowded with excited people, run-
ning here and there, all eagerness for the boat to dock.
Some were leaning over the rail, greeting friends and rela-
tives whom they could already recognize among the crowd
on the outer end of the pier. There was much laughter
and a few tears of sheer joy, and all of that bustle and
thrill attendant upon a ship’s arrival in port, especially in
a small port which spells home to a major portion of the
passengers,
256 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Only the heart of Diego remained contracted with bit-
terness. Why had he come? This was not the city of
his dreams, this strange place, too reminiscent of the
modern cities of the North. He did not want to go
ashore. Better to stay aboard and return with the ship
than to suffer complete disillusionment. Now that joy
and hope were both cold within him, the illness which had
been insistently trying to overcome his strength of will,
reasserted itself. At this sad moment a tiny girl of per-
haps six years paused at his side, her face radiant with
smiles, and, because he was the nearest at hand, spoke
to him with that artless unselfconsciousness natural to
young children.

“Ay,” she said, “but it is good to be back in Porto Rico,
where the sun always shines and it is always warm! I do
not like New York!”

Old Diego regarded the pretty child with wonder, and
in an ‘instant he was mightily ashamed of himself. What
if the material aspects were changed? This was, after
all, Porto Rico—the kindly place of light and warmth
and happiness! Nothing could change that, for it was
the gift of God. But it had taken this simple child to
open his blinded eyes. He put his thin hand on the
pink-clad shoulder. “Thank you, my child,” he said.

“For what, Sefior?” she asked wonderingly.

“For showing me the truth,” he replied. Seeing that
she regarded him open-eyed, he asked, “What is your
name?’

“Josefina Almiroty,” she replied.

Almiroty! That was the surname of Juan! “I—I
once had a very dear friend named Almiroty,” said Diego
softly. “Juan Almiroty.”

)
DIEGO 257

“Why, that is my grandfather!” exclaimed the inno-
cent child. “We have just come from New York to visit
him!”

“What? Your grandfather?”

“Yes, Seftor. He lives in the Calle Sol.”

It seemed almost too much, too good to be true. But,
just as he eagerly started to ask this miraculous child
more questions, a woman appeared and called sharply,
“Josefina! Come here this instant!” adding in a voice
that was audible to Diego, as the little girl went to her,
“How often must I tell you not to talk with strangers?”

Oh, the pain of that! Poor Diego! Was he to lose
this precious opportunity to renew his old friendship?

He heard the child protesting, “But, mother, he is not
a stranger. That old man is a friend of grandfather’s!”

The woman approached Diego and said, “Excuse me,
please, but Josefina is so friendly with everyone, and in
New York one has to be careful about strangers. 1 did
not know you were a friend of my father-in-law’s. May
I ask your name?”

“Diego Alarcon, Sefiora,” he replied eagerly.

She looked unenlightened. “I do not believe I know
the name,” she said musingly.

“But Juan Almiroty will know it!” exclaimed Diego,
who had risen to his feet with new life. “Just think,
Sefiora, I am returning to Porto Rico for the first time in
more than fifty years! 1 was a boyhood friend of
Juan’s.”

“Fifty vears?”’ she repeated with complete incredulity
in her voice. She drew Josefina’s hand firmly into her
own as though to protect her little daughter from a luna-
tic. “I—I am sure that he will be glad to see you, Sefior
258 TALES OF BORINQUEN

—Senor Alarcon,” she stammered. ‘Please excuse us
now, as I must find my husband,” and she hurried away.

“But, Sefiora—" Diego called after her in dismay.
She pretended not to hear and disappeared inside.

There she encountered her husband. “What is the
matter, Mercedes?” he asked, seeing the queer look upon
her {ace

She laughed nervously and answered, “Why, Alberto,
I—I believe I have just seen a ghost! There is the
strangest old man out there. He is so thin and trembly,
and he says he is returning to Porto Rico for the first
time in more than fifty years! Fifty! Why, just think
of it, Alberto, that was long before either you or I were
born! It's incredible! I never heard anything like it!”

“What is his name?” asked her husband, greatly in-
terested. :

“He says it is Diego Alarcon and that he is a friend
of your father. He was first talking to Josefina, but I
called her away because he looked so queer and ill.”

“Hm,” mused Alberto. “I do not recall ever having
heard father mention anyone of that name. But you
can’t tell. Strange things happen in this world. Where
is he? I am going out to see him.”

“Oh, no, Alberto, I am afraid he may be crazy. Please,
do not talk to him.”

“Nonsense! So old a man as that would not be dan-
gerous even if he were mentally deranged. I am going
to talk with him. Fifty years! Why this is even better
than that famous story of Rip Van Winkle who slept for
twenty years.”

“Please don’t go, Alberto,” but as he had already gone,
she followed him curiously.
DIEGO 259

The old man was nowhere to be seen. “That is
strange,” remarked Dofia Mercedes. “A moment ago
he was here, and now he seems to have evaporated. See,
I told you he was a ghost!”

“Don’t be silly! Ghosts do not appear in broad day-
light on such busy places as the deck of a ship which is
just pulling into port. That reminds me, we are wasting
a lot of time, and in a few minutes, now, the gangplank
will be lowered.”

“You didn’t see him,” concluded the wife, anxious to
have the last word on the subject, as they hurried to their
stateroom. :

“Well, if he was a ghost, you may be sure you will
see him again. Phantoms always return to haunt those
before whom they appear once,” laughed Alberto.

But in these moments Diego was a very live ghost in-
deed. He did not mind the rather abrupt departure of
the young woman who was Juan's daughter-in-law, for he
was used to the attitudes and actions of younger people.
If they were thoughtful and kind, he responded, but if
they were indifferent or discourteous, he put their actions
down to the carelessness of youth. It sufficed for him to
know that Juan was still alive and still residing in the
same street. One thing at least had not changed! Gone
were his thoughts of returning with the ship, and eagerly
he waited for the gangplank to be lowered. The morning
was becoming very warm and he was conscious of his
heavy black suit. Soon now he would buy a cheap linen
one, and a straw hat too! And then he would throw this
winter clothing away.

But when Diego finally got off the ship and made
his way through the heat, noise, and confusion of the
260 TALES OF BORINQUEN

pier, he emerged only to find the street which led up to the
city literally full of automobiles! Automobiles! He had
thought to leave the wretched things behind, and here with
his first step on land he was confronted by a barricade
of them, all moving, roaring, sounding their klaxons,
just as they did in the States!

 

 

The sky line of modern San Juan.

The unaccustomed heat, his own overwhelming emo-
tions, and the unexpected confusion of the street com-
bined to render old Diego practically helpless. Not know-
ing what to do or where to go, he decided to return to
the pier. There he would find a corner where he might
sit down on a box until the excitement accompanying the
arrival of the steamer should have somewhat subsided.

As he sat on the noisy dock, the poor man tried to re-
arrange his thoughts, from the bewilderment into which
they had been thrown at the entirely unexpected turn his
home-coming had taken. He wondered if he had done
DIEGO 2601

right to come. Perhaps it would have been far, far bet-
ter to remain with Lucy and Baird, to give them his
money and thus be sure of a home until he died. His
money, which he had thought sufficient, now seemed a
small sum to last him for very long in this modern city
where modern prices must be charged accordingly! He
was in the midst of this problem when he was discovered
by the steward, who had been looking for him everywhere.

“What are you doing here, Sefior?”’ asked the younger
man. “Why did you not wait until T could help you, be-
fore you tried to get off the boat? I imagine that you
find things much changed, but I will take you wherever
you wish to go.”

Thus it was that Diego ventured at last into the
crowded streets under the protection of the steward.
Slowly they made their way to Sol Street, to the very
foot of the well-remembered stairway of Juan Almiroty’s
house. There Diego begged the steward to leave him,
that he might go up alone to surprise his former friend.

But the steward was filled with misgivings. Fifty
years was a long, long time. He was afraid that Diego
was going to be disappointed. Almiroty was a common
enough name. Perhaps he would not even encounter the
one he was looking for, but as the boat would sail for
Santo Domingo at six o'clock, there was nothing he could
do but leave the old man and entrust him to Providence.

“1Un millon de gracias!” said Diego with tears in his
eyes, as he began to climb slowly up the old marble stairs
with their Delft tile decorations. He clung to a solid
mahogany rail, antique when he was a youth. This was
certainly the right house. He reached the top of the long
flight (for the ceilings are high in these old Spanish
262 TALES OF BORINQUEN

structures) and knocked on the door. A servant ap-
peared.

“Tell Senior Almiroty that an old friend is here to see
him.”

When the mysterious visitor was announced, Juan
Almiroty was in the sala, talking with his youngest son
and daughter-in-law, just arrived that morning from New
York.

“Ah!” cried Don Alberto to his wife. “Your ghost
seems to be reappearing, true to form!”

Donia Mercedes regarded him speechlessly.

“What is it?’ asked Don Juan.

But, before they could explain anything, Diego ap-
peared in the arched doorway, a strange figure in his dark
winter clothes, which hung loosely on his thin, bent form,
and with his long white hair and beard and his quivering
face. He stared about him with uncertainty until his
gaze came to rest on Don Juan. Then, not because he
recognized him, but because reason told him that this old
man must be his boyhood friend, he spoke in tremulous
tones: ‘Don’t you know me, Juanito? I am Diego
Alarcon!”

Utter silence followed, Diego looking eagerly at Don
Juan, Alberto and his wife amazed witnesses of the
strange little drama, and Don Juan himself still sitting
dazedly in his rocking chair. Then slowly, slowly, with-
out a word, he rose. They could see that he was trem-
bling. At last he spoke with a great effort. “Who?”
he said, and the one word seemed to come from a long
distance. ¥

“Diego,” repeated the other. “Diego Alarcén. Oh,
Juanito, do not tell me that you do not remember!”
DIEGO 263

Such fear, such pain was in that supplication that the
two younger people involuntarily rose to their feet, as
though to go to the aid of the one who uttered it. But a
movement of their father’s hand halted them. Still trem-
bling he repeated, as though from far away, “Diego
Alarcon, you say? You are Diego Alarcon?”

“Yes!” replied Don Diego eagerly, and he took one
step forward as though to embrace his old friend.

“Wait,” said the other in a strange hollow voice. “You
say that you are Diego Alarcon. Yet how can that be?
For Diego Alarcén is dead.”

His last words fell in the silence one by one, like
rocks dropped into a deep well, each one sending back a
weird echo from the depths. No one moved, no one
seemed even to breathe.

It was Diego himself who broke the tragic spell. “No!
No!” he cried in anguished protest. “No! Why do
you say that? 1 am he, 1 tell you, 1 swear to you!
Why would I say that I am Diego Alarcén, if 1 were
not?”

“I do not know,” replied Don Juan, who was so shaken
at what seemed to be an apparition from the tomb that his
son had quickly to support him with his strong arm.
“Twenty years ago,” he continued, “the friends of Diego
Alarcén received word that he was dead. We even ar-
ranged a requiem mass in his memory, in memory of
our boyhood friend who went out into the world to seek
his fortune and who never returned!”

“But it was for some other, certainly it was for some
other! It was a mistake, Juanito. For I declare I am
Diego Alarcon, and I can prove it in a hundred ways!”
and the poor man sank down into a chair, too overcome
264 TALES OF BORINQUEN

at this terrible climax to his homecoming to say more.

Oh, the irony of it, to return only to find oneself twenty
years dead in the minds and memories of one's friends!
Twenty years. It is a long time during which much may
be forgotten. It might even be very inconvenient for
anyone to recall a man put decisively out of mind for
that length of time! Friends and relatives were shocked
at the news of your demise, but after becoming accus-
tomed to their loss, readjustment might be difficult, awk-
ward, even undesirable. Death is such a final thing, such
a closed book, and life so rearranged after its passing,
that a return to the former state and relationship would
in many cases be utterly impossible! . . .

However, after the first shock had passed and Don
‘Alberto had assisted his father back to his chair, the four
surprised people began to breathe once more and attempt to
rationalize their thoughts and ideas. A little girl ran
into the sala. It was Josefina. “Mamita,” she began,
then stopped upon catching sight of Diego. “Oh!” she
cried gladly. “So you have come! I am so glad!
Grandfather must be glad, too, to see his old friend!”
and the innocent child approached Diego confidingly and
laid her little hand on his arm. She looked around the
room at the perplexed faces of her elders, who now showed
considerable disconcertion.

“The trust of a child,” murmured Alberto. “Does
that not serve better than anything to convince you,
father?’

Don Juan shook his head.

Doila Mercedes rose at a nod from her husband.
“Come, Josefina,” she said. “Let us get our visitor a
glass of water.” She led her daughter from the room,
DIEGO 265

and Diego looked sadly after the child who had tried to
help him twice that day and failed through the wilful
blindness of the grown-ups around her.

“Don Alberto spoke quietly: “This is a very strange
situation. Perhaps if you will recall a few events of the
times so long ago, Sefor Alarcon, father will know that
you are his old friend. I am sure that he wishes to be
convinced. Tt was only the shock of your appearance
that caused him to reply thus.”

“Yes,” agreed Don Juan absently, who now sat with
his eyes fixed on Don Diego’s face as though seeking
there some resemblance to the young man he had known
so long ago that he had forgotten his every lineament.
He could not yet accustom himself to the miracle of the
return of that youth in the person of the feeble man before
him.

But old Diego did not reply to Don Alberto’s request.
- He still sat crumpled up on the chair, staring straight
before him, now and then mumbling a few words under
his breath, as though trying to console himself for his
disappointment. He seemed to be in a kind of trance.
Don Juan motioned to his son and whispered something to
him, and Alberto hastily left the room, to summon Don
Carlos, Don Luis, and Dofia Ana, wife of the latter,
lifelong friends of his father’s and contemporaries of
Diego Alarcon.

As these people still clung to their old residences in
San Juan, they arrived in less than half an hour, and
Alberto, who had been looking for them, went down the
stairs to assist them and prepare them for the appearance
of Diego. When he had told them what had occurred,
they unanimously replied, “Impossible! Diego Alarcon
266 TALES OF BORINQUEN

died twenty years ago!” and he could see that they were all
very much disturbed, just as his father had been.

When they entered the sale Don Juan rose to greet
them. Then he approached Diego and said: “Sefor,
here are Carlos, Luis, and Anita, who also aided in the
celebration of the requiem mass and who have now come
to hear you prove that you are the friend of our youth
returned from the dead.”

At hearing this Diego looked up slowly into the curi-
ous faces peering at him with fear and curiosity. In not
one of them did he recognize a familiar feature among
the wrinkles of their advanced age. No more did they
recognize him. Don Alberto, looking on, thought what
a strange and pathetic little drama was being enacted be-
fore him. Here were four old people, too feeble and
querulous to take the declaration of this fifth one on
trust. As though it really made any difference! If he
himself were confronted with such a situation he was
sure he would not hesitate to humor the old man to the
extent of pretending to believe him, even if he really
did not. But he realized the disparity between his point
of view and that of these older folk. They now had so
little to fill their lives that they seized and made the most
of every bit of drama which came their way, in order to
brighten their rather dreary existence. Whether they
believed Diego or not, they were going to stretch the
matter to its full possibilities before they rendered their
decisions. With that distorted viewpoint, peculiar to the
very old, they were going to make the most out of a thing
of small importance. :

Alberto smiled a little to himself over the immense
seriousness with which they set about their inquisition,
DIEGO fy

for he understood that this was the most exciting event
that had brightened their lives for many a day. He felt
sorry for Diego, because the old fellow looked really ill,
but he knew that interference on his part would not be
welcomed, so he retired to a corner that he might miss
none of what followed.

His father, who had by now recovered from the in-
tense surprise he had received, constituted himself as
spokesman. “If, as you say, you are Diego Alarcon,
whom we have all believed dead these many years,” he
began, addressing Diego, “first you must tell us where you
lived.”

*1 lived in Calle Cristo.”

Nods of approval among the other four greeted this
prompt and correct reply.

“You must tell us the names of others with whom we
were friendly.”

“Jorge!” exclaimed Diego eagerly, beginning to catch
the spirit of this interrogatory, “and Ramoén, Benjamin,
and Paco!”

Significant glances of confirmation were exchanged.

“Do you not remember—" continued Diego, his weary
body stimulated by returning excitement. Oh, in a few
minutes now they were going to realize that he was no
impostor, to believe him and welcome him, and then what
happy times these old friends would have together! “Do
you not remember the day the head schoolmaster punished
Jorge unjustly, and we decided to run away from school
and live as bandits in the mountains, and how we went
as far as the village of Rio Piedras—" :

“It is a city now,” interrupted Carlos.

“All is changed!” sighed Diego. “It was a village
268 TALES OF BORINQUEN

then. And how we all became so afraid that we turned
to go back, but how night overtook us and we found the
Santiago gate closed and the drawbridge up, and then
how we debated whether to spend the night in the open or
to rouse the guard. We decided to call him but before
we could make him hear some—"

“Some men who looked like real bandits came along and
frightened us nearly to death!” finished Carlos excitedly.

“Yes, yes,” agreed Diego, delighted to see that he was
convincing them.

“You must not prompt him, Carlos,” said Don Juan.
“If you help him to remember, how can we be sure he is
Diego?”

“And then we ran away towards the San Antonio
bridge in order to try to obtain shelter for the night in
Fort San Geronimo, and the sergeant of the guard took
us in, scolding us soundly. And that night began the
great hurricane of San Narciso. It was November
twenty-ninth, 1867.”

Well they all remembered that! Carlos was on his
feet, convinced now that this was his old friend. But
Juan was more skeptical. “Wait a moment,” he said.
“Tell us, do you remember the day the cock and the cat
fought at the wedding?”

“Yes,” piped Dofia Ana, in her cracked voice. “Do
you remember that?”

Diego laughed, and suddenly all five of them were
laughing together like children over the memory of the
terrible fight between young Diego's fighting cock and
Ana's pet kitten, which had surreptitiously been taken
into church during the fashionable wedding of the mayor’s
daughter! Vividly, too, they recalled the anger of the
DIEGO 269

young priest who was performing his first marriage cere-
mony. i...

“They are like boys and girls once more,” thought Al-
berto, the quick tears starting to his eyes over the child-
ishness of extreme old age. “Now they will acknowl-
edge him,” he thought gladly, and indeed old Diego had
risen from his chair ready to embrace his friends. He
was half-laughing, half-crying in his joy.

“Of course you know I am Diego now,” he quavered.
“Why, 1 married a girl from this very town, and all the
years that we were in the North we lived with but one
dream—that of returning to Porto Rico!”

The pitiful old man was trembling so much that Al-
berto jumped to his feet in alarm. This was going too
far.

“Who was she?” asked Dofia Ana.

“Why, why,” stammered Diego, stopping short, “why,
Mamita—" He seemed to cease breathing. Oh, this
was terrible. Fifty years calling his wife Mamita, and
now in this moment he could not remember her name!

“But that is not a name!” insisted Dofia Ana, while the
others regarded Diego curiously, all their doubts re-
turned.

“I always called her that. Wait just a moment,” he
pleaded. “Let me think. I cannot seem to recall . . .”
he now began to mumble to himself once more.

“He is out of his head,” whispered Luis to the others.
“A man who cannot remember his own wife's name is
crazy. Even if he is Diego, which I doubt, he is certainly
crazy and should be locked up! ‘Mamita’ How can he
expect us to believe him? This is some deception. He
wants to gain something from us and he has assumed
270 TALES OF BORINQUEN

the identity of poor Diego, whom he must have known at
some time, to try to deceive us.”

The others nodded their heads in agreement and looked
with suspicion upon Diego, who stood with head bowed
low, his eyes blinded with tears.

“Probably escaped from the asylum this very day,”
said Carlos.

“No, he really did come on the ship,” interposed
Alberto impatiently. “My wife and daughter saw him
this morning. I believe if he rests he will be able to
remember. This is a very strange situation.”

The others agreed with him. Don Juan then sug-
gested that the old stranger remain at his house and that a
room be prepared for him. After Alberto had persuaded
Diego to go to his room and lie down, the four old
people who remained in the sala fell to discussing the
afternoon’s occurrence pro and con with animation.
After having dismissed Diego from their lives so long,
believing him dead, it was very hard for them to think
of him as living, as being, in fact, the returned wanderer,
under the same roof with them! And to think that he
did not know the name of the pretty girl he claimed to
have married! They all remembered her very well. She
was Alicia Fontefia. . . . But of course they could not
tell that to the man who pretended to have been her
husband !

Diego lay down on the huge old four-poster bed, his
body burning with fever, his mind trying to slip into a
delirium from which he repeatedly called it back, making
a tremendous effort to concentrate on the one thing which
so unaccountably had eluded him to the amazement of his
friends. How could a sane man forget his own wife's
DIEGO 271

name? It was incredible, but none the less true, and if
he could not think of it, they would not believe him!
At last, completely exhausted, Diego fell into a troubled
sleep. Looking in on him, Alberto and his wife decided
that it was better to let him rest than to call him for
dinner. The pity with which they regarded that sleeping
figure was intense. “God help us that we may never be-
come so old, friendless, and homeless as this poor man,”
they both were thinking.

As the night wore on, a full moon shining in upon
him woke Diego. He could not remember where he was
nor how he had come there. He stared at the round,
radiant orb in the clear sky. Not for years had he seen
it look thus. Then he remembered that he was in Porto
Rico! He felt a sudden urge to get up and go out under
that lovely moon, into the tranquil tropical night. He
recalled that he must still be in Juan's house and that
his old friends had not believed he was Diego because
he could not remember Mamita’s name. Little mother!
So long, so long, he had called her that. He wished she
were here with him. . . . He would slip out now into
the cool night, and perhaps his clouded thoughts would
clear. In the quiet sleeping streets he would be able to
make out familiar landmarks, which the confusion of
traffic and people had prevented him from seeing earlier
in the day.

So he crept out of the room and down the stairs which
he had mounted in the afternoon with such anticipation
only to be greeted at the top with the announcement
that he was dead!

Up the silent street, where only an occasional cat
prowled in and out the shadows, Diego made his difficult
272 TALES OF BORINQUEN

way. He recognized the old Spanish houses now, but
by their decrepit, rundown appearance he realized that
these former habitations of the rich must be given over
to the poor, and he reflected that it was exactly like
Chicago. With the growth of the city the wealthy
people had moved farther and farther away from the
center, ever seeking clearer air, trees, serenity, while their
former mansions were turned over to the hordes of the
poor or to business establishments. That must be what
had happened to San Juan, for he recalled from his view
of that morning that the greater part of the residence
section of the city now lay outside the confines of the
original settlement.

He reached the San José Plaza, where he had passed
happy hours in his youth. The white moonlight streamed
down on the pale walls of the oldest church in the city,
familiar, unchanged. Diego sat down on a bench under
a leafless acacia tree, as gnarled and twisted as the old man
himself. Its countless thin, dry seed pods crackled
ceaselessly as the breeze rustled them together in a sound
not unlike the whispering of a roomful of women, from
which characteristic these trees derive the name of
“women’s tongues.” Peace now began to creep into
Diego's heart, peace and satisfaction. Here in the warm
quiet night he had retrieved, for an hour or two, his
dream.

After resting in the plaza for a while, he moved on,
seeking other old-time haunts. Finally he came out on
the walk by the sea wall, and then below he saw the
cemetery, its marble tombs and monuments of an un-
earthly white radiance under the proud, high moon. The
City of the Dead—more quiet, more peaceful even than
DIEGO 273

 

Moonlight on Morro Castle

the sleeping city of the living. Lying there so tranquil,
it presented an irresistible haven to Diego, and he directed
his faltering footsteps down the incline into it. A soft
murmur from the shining sea, splashing at the base of
the wall below, rose soothingly. . . . A single palm tree,
wet with dew, was transformed into a thousand gleaming
swords. Among the tombs Diego walked, and among
the marble angels and saints adorning them. How
beautiful it was here! He wished to be buried in this
very place. Then, weary, he sat down for a moment
on the edge of one of the gravestones. In the silvery
light, bright as day, he read idly the name inscribed there:
Fontefia. Why, that was the tomb of Alicia’s family.
274 TALES OF BORINQUEN

He started in surprise. He wished she were with him
in this holy hour.

“Alicia Fontena.” That was Mamita’s name—Alicia
Fontena! In the morning he would tell them, and then
they would believe him. How simple! How wonderful!
And old Diego laughed aloud, so that there rose a happier
echo among the narrow tombs in the City of the Dead
than had ever risen there. For Diego had at last reached
home. .

In the morning a strange old man was found dead,
lying across the tomb marked Fontena. . . .

Alberto, who had been in the streets searching for
Diego, brought the news to Don Juan, Don Carlos,
Don Luis, and Donia Ana, and thus they understood too
late that the old stranger had not been an impostor.

“Who was it, father,” asked Alberto, “who told you
twenty years ago, that Diego Alarcon was dead?”

“No one told me, hijito,” replied Don Juan. “Twenty
years ago I received a letter from a strange man, who
declared he had been a close friend of Diego's there in
the North. He said Diego had died, leaving his widow
and children destitute, and that Dofia Alicia, having no
relatives, had given him my address. He implored the
friends of Diego to send money to the poor woman that
she might bring her family back to Porto Rico. I has-
tened to make known this request, and the next boat
carried to her nearly two hundred pesos. But Alicia and
her children never came. Alas, she never even acknowl-
edged our gift. Perhaps some accident—"

But at this point, much to his father’s Setpleni, the
younger man broke into bitter laughter.
THE CRIMSON FLOWER

“Oh, Don Pio!”

“Greetings, Florencio, my friend!”

The two men, Don Pio, the hat merchant, and Flo-
rencio, the humble hat weaver, embraced each other
affectionately. Though Don Pio had risen somewhat in
the world, he had never forgotten the old friends of the
days when he, too, was a poor weaver.

“And how is Dona Prudencia?”’

“Well, thank you. And thy good wife?”

“Alas, she could not come to the fiesta, for our grand-
child is ill with fever.”

“Happy man to be a grandfather!” exclaimed Don Pio
enviously.

“And how is the little Amapola?”’ asked Florencio at
once, thinking of Don Pio’s daughter who had not yet
married.

The hat merchant’s face clouded. “She is well,” he
replied dryly. “She is in the house now with Prudencia,
preparing for tonight's festivities. Thou knowest she
has promised to dance for the benefit of the poor of Cabo
Rojo,” and the father pointed to a sign nearby which
told that Inés Isérn, known as “La Amapola,” would give
a series of Spanish dances—the jota, the bolero, some
gypsy dances, and seguidillas, as part of the celebration
of St. Michael's Day. The expression on Don Pio’s face
was grim and disapproving.

275
276 TALES OF BORINQUEN

 

 

A country hat store.

“I have heard many rumors concerning her great
beauty. Amapola has gone a long way,” remarked
Florencio with the intention of being complimentary.

“Indeed yes—too far, my friend. She has ever been
a strange child, not like either her mother or me. But
come, Florencio, let us sit down awhile. The afternoon’s
gaiety has tired me thoroughly.”
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 277

The two friends rested on a bench under a quenepa
tree in the plaza of Cabo Rojo, where they had met each
other. The sun had set, filling the clear western sky
with a limpid glow, tinging the masses of cumulus clouds
in the east with varying tints of rose. A faint haze of
dust stirred up by the horses during the afternoon races
still hung in the motionless air above the little town,
which was celebrating the feast day of its patron saint,
San Miguel.

The shady plaza was now nearly deserted, though
many confused footprints, bits of colored paper, and
trampled flowers bespoke the crowd which had dis-
ported itself there all day. Where they were festooned
from tree to tree, long strings of gay-hued, triangular
banners hung limp in the still atmosphere. Several
brightly bedecked booths, which held refreshments for
sale or harbored merry games of chance, were nearly
deserted. The large dance platform, erected for the
evening ball, was bare and clean. Lanterns swinging
above it waited to be lighted. The doors of the ancient
church stood open, and down through the soft, quiet
gloom of the nave candles could be seen gleaming among
the flowers which adorned the silver altar. The stifling
heat of the day was beginning to be replaced by the fresh-
ness of evening. An air of peace fraught with expect-
ancy hung over the town. Occasionally the cry of a
tired child was heard or a burst of gay young laughter.
Odors from delicious holiday feasts soon rose temptingly
from the houses whither the inmates and their many
guests had temporarily repaired.

“Let us wait here till my servant announces supper,”
suggested Don Pio. “It does my heart good to have a
278 TALES OF BORINQUEN

comfortable visit with an old friend. Thou must eat
with us, Florencio.”

“Oh, Don Pio,” protested the other timidly, “thou art
very kind, but [—" and the countryman looked uneasily
at his coarse clothes and work-stained hands.

“Hush, man! Of course thou wilt come! Doda
Prudencia will be more than glad to see thee, and as for
my wayward daughter, it is well that the humble days of
her childhood be recalled to her as often as possible, lest
she think herself an even finer lady than she already does.
Ah, yes, Florencio,” continued Don Pio, “she is much
changed from the pretty little girl thou used to know,”
and Don Pio shook his head gloomily.

“How is that, Don Pio? I do not understand. My
wife and I often speak, as we sit in our dooryard weaving
hats, of the days when thou and Dofia Prudencia lived
opposite us in the grove of palmmas de sombrero.”

“They were happy days, Florencio.”

“Yes, indeed they were. And one of our pleasantest
memories is of Amapola, as we always speak of her, even
though we had the honor to be present when she was
christened Inés. We often recall when she was a tiny
babe, prettier than any other we have ever seen to this
very day.”

“Yes, she was pretty; and even her father, accustomed
to seeing her constantly, may safely say without boasting
that she is surpassingly beautiful today. But therein lies
the very evil, Florencio. So exquisite a creature does
not seem a true child of such plain, unprepossessing folk-
as Prudencia and I. It is rather as if we had all these
years claimed as our own some marvelous fairy who
happened into our poor home by mistake.”
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 279

“She was ever like a fairy,” remarked Florencio.
“Dost thou remember, Don Pio, how, when she was a
tiny infant, Dofia Prudencia used to carry her cradle out
into your dooryard every day and place it under the big
ceiba tree? And how she would tie a string to a branch
of the tree above the cradle, and fasten to the free end
of the cord a red amapola (hibiscus flower) so that the
child might be amused as the breeze swung it brightly
back and forth above her?”

“Well do I remember that custom, by which she gained
the name which has clung to her till now. And look thee,
Florencio, IT am a superstitious man. I believe that
Prudencia and I made a great mistake in what we did.
For I think that while day by day it fascinated her baby
eyes, something of the crimson flower was imparted to
her—its spirit perhaps. For has she not grown up such a
strange, enchanting girl that she is the crimson flower
personified ?”’

“A very pretty idea!” exclaimed Florencio, his fancy
captivated.

“A terrible idea,” cried Don Pio, “for the spirit of
the red flower is wicked! Very early Inés came to be
known as the little Amapola. At once in her child's mind
she was apart, different from other people who had not
the names of bright flowers, but sober Christian names
such as we have. She put on little airs and developed a
wilful way, very amusing in a child no doubt, but dan-
gerous in a woman. She used to tuck hibiscus flowers
behind her ears after she was too old to lie in her cradle,
and run, skipping and laughing, among the hat palms all
through the colony of weavers, to be praised and petted
and admired for her cleverness.”
280 TALES OF BORINQUEN

“And how we all adored her!”

“Ay, that we did, too much so, for we made her vain!
And if the child is vain, what will the woman be? Ah,
Florencio, even the inheritance of a house and money
from my aunt was a misfortune rather than the blessing
all my friends deemed it. For since we moved into town
my daughter has become more vain and conceited with
every passing day. Beautiful she is, IT must admit, and
the foolish young men, dazzled by her appearance, cannot
see her many faults of character. Ah, my friend, I fear
my proud Inés has a hard lesson to learn!”

Just then a servant, sent by Dofia Prudencia, appeared
at her master’s elbow to announce that the evening meal
was nearly ready.

Florencio was not now reluctant to accompany his old
friend, for his timidity had in part given way before his
curiosity to see the extraordinary woman that the small
girl he had known and admired had grown to be. The
two men walked across the plaza and entered one of
the houses facing it.

A woman, dressed soberly in black, with a black lace
mantilla draped over her white hair advanced to meet
them. ‘Ah, friend Florencio, I am glad to see thee!
And Maria?”

“She could not come because our grandchild is ill,”
replied the hat weaver bowing awkwardly, unused to the
elegance of a town house. He was accustomed to the
one- and two-room homes of his country neighbors and
was somewhat overwhelmed to see the prosperity of the
hat merchant, Don Pio, who had formerly lived in a two-
room cabin thatched with palm fronds. But Florencio
soon found that their modest advance in life had not
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 281

changed the simple, sterling characters of either of his
friends. He sat uneasily on the edge of his chair, twirl-
ing his soft straw hat nervously in his hands, and looked
around for a glimpse of Inés, unable to understand how
any but the most dutiful and best of daughters could
grow up under such a kindly influence.

The same servant announced supper a moment later,
and, as they passed down the corridor towards the dining
room, Florencio was startled to hear a woman's voice,
rich and beautiful of tone but raised petulantly, exclaim :
“Stupid idiot! Now thou hast ruined that side! Take
it all down again! ;Virgen Santa! 1 swear 1 will not
endure thy service for another hour!” and a sound of a
sharp heel tap on the floor accentuated the anger of the
words.

Don Pio and Dona Prudencia, very much embarrassed,
hastily began to address their uncomfortable guest in loud
tones to drown out the other voice, which ceased as
Florencio answered.

Florencio seated himself awkwardly at the table, ob-
serving the fourth place which was empty. Pio and
Prudencia attempted to put their guest at ease by talking
about cold times and plying him with all the rich and varied
foods which had been prepared in honor of the day.
Fiorencio secretly thought it strange that there were no
other guests at the festive board. He ate nervously and
could not help his eyes straying often towards the door.
Suddenly there came through it such a vision of love-
liness that he was not able to take another mouthful.

Seldom may one see a girl so beautiful as Inés Isérn.
This night she had dressed for her part in the evening
performance before coming to supper. She wore a scarlet
282 TALES OF BORINQUEN

silk dress adorned with a myriad of ruffles which swirled
and rustled with every step she took in her dainty red-
heeled slippers. Her neck and arms and face were white
with the almost bluish tinge which characterizes so many
Spanish beauties. Her small mouth was as crimson as a
native strawberry. Her nose was straight and her nos-
trils sensitive, while her glorious eyes glowed with all
the tropical fire of her West Indian home. Her hair was
perfectly straight and glossy as the iridescent feathers of
a blackbird. In it was stuck a wondrous red lacquer
comb, over which was draped a rich cream lace mantilla,
and from her tiny ears twinkled and glowed two stones
of fire—precious rubies if the ignorant countryman could
have known it. Thrown gracefully around her, its heavy
fringe trailing the floor, was a gorgeously embroidered
mantéon de Manila, and in her hand she flirted a fan of
carved satinwood, covered with painted silk. To complete
the picture, more exquisite than any Florencio had ever
dreamed of in his limited life, behind her left ear there
burned a huge red hibiscus flower—her symbol; or per-
haps, as Don Pio had bitterly suggested, her spirit!

‘Her face fell when she saw that the owner of the un-
known voice she had heard from the corridor was but
another of those poor countrymen her father was always
asking in to supper, and she seated herself at the table
with only a careless nod towards the bedazzled guest.

“Inés, this is Florencio, who knew thee when thou
wert small,” murmured Dona Prudencia.

“So? Iam glad to see you, Don Florencio,” remarked.
Inés, her mind plainly on other things.

“I—TI am flattered!” stammered Florencio, his voice

’
.

THE CRIMSON FLOWER 283

sounding strangely harsh in his own ears, his face flushed
with bashfulness.

Inés stole a glance at him. They were all alike—rich
or poor, old or young, high or low—she had the same
effect upon them all. As a new realization of the
marvelous power of her beauty swept through her, she
at once became the embodiment of gracious animation.
“Well, papito,” she cried airily, “tell thy poor daughter,
who was forced to spend the afternoon in the house, about
the festivities!”

“Thou didst not have to stay in the house,” replied
Don Pio firmly. “Thou didst it only because thine un-
holy vanity would not permit thee to expose thy face to
the sun!”

“Hear him, Don Florencio! What a cruel parent he
is! Come,” she coaxed, leaning towards the hat weaver,
whose simple heart was already at her feet, “you tell me
what happened!”

Poor Florencio moved wretchedly in his chair and could
not find tongue to utter a single appropriate word to this
radiant vision.

“Inés,” remonstrated her mother, “thou must be more
courteous towards our guest!”

“;Oué? More courteous? Was [I not courteous
enough? I am sure Don Florencio thinks that I was, do
you not, Don Florencio?” and she turned on him her
smile, the celebrated smile that had already played havoc
with many foolish hearts.

“Thou seemest to be wearing several things I have
never seen before,” interrupted her father hastily.

“Ah, yes, that is true! Gifts which arrived during
284 TALES OF BORINQUEN

the afternoon, in honor of my entertainment. You will
be there, Don Florencio? 1 tell you, twill be well worth
it, for I shall out-dance the angels on this night!”

“Inés!” Dona Prudencia reproved her daughter in
horror.

“Now, now, mamita, calm thyself! I meant no harm
by my words. But look, let me show my gifts!
This fan,” and she unfurled the lovely thing for their
inspection, “was sent me by Eduardo, the wood-carver.
According to him he has been at work on it since the
first announcement, three months ago, that I would dance
on the day of San Miguel. Look at it, is it not pretty?
See how he has carved little amapolas in the delicate
satinwood? And observe, the same flowers so sweetly
painted on the silk!” Scarcely giving them time to see
the fan, she snapped it shut carelessly and lifted a corner
of her shawl. “And this mantén de Manila was sent me
by Miguel, the young man who takes the hats to San Juan
for father.”

“Inés!” cried her mother. “Dost thou not know that
his poverty-stricken mother is a helpless invalid? It
must have taken all his savings of many, many months
to purchase such a mantén!”

“It doubtless did,” replied her daughter complacently.
“I mentioned one night that I was eating my poor heart
out for such a shawl and that thou and father would not
buy it for me. I suppose the foolish fellow thought to
gain favor with me by giving me one,” she observed
airily.

*Inés!”

“And then this comb,” she touched it lightly, “and
these earrings,” her little fingers fondled them lovingly,

<
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 285

as well they might, “they are gifts from,” she hesitated
a moment, glancing hastily at her father, whose face wore
a frown, “from Don Cipriano Toro.”

Don Pio was on his feet, white with anger. “Inés,
I forbid thee to keep them!”

“But, father,” the girl's voice came cool and danger-
ously sweet, “wouldst thou ruin thy daughter’s chances of
marrying the richest coffee grower in the island?”

“Chances! Thou hast none with that wicked man!
He—he—" Don Pio was left stammering helplessly, for,
with a peal of laughter, his daughter had sped from the
room. “You see?’ he said, spreading his hands out
helplessly and reseating himself.

Florencio looked from one to the other of his old
friends dazedly. Could it be possible that the marvel-
ously beautiful, enormously daring girl who had just left
was their child?

“There's the devil at work in it,” remarked Don Pio
hopelessly. “No punishment that I can devise will reform
her, or cure her of the terrible vanity which will be her
doom!”

“Vanity my doom?” inquired a head startlingly thrust
in at the door, with an impish smile. “There's many a
woman, papito, who would gladly die of vanity if they
had as much reason for it as I have!” and she disappeared
again.

“Thou shouldst see her on Sunday evenings, promenad-
ing like a peacock in the plaza, her face wreathed in the
sweetest smiles ever worn by woman, her eyes full of
sparkling light. While she is abroad, all, even the sober-
est young men, have eyes for no one but her. Thou
canst well imagine how popular she is with the other girls
286 TALES OF BORINQUEN

of her age! On other nights she sits on the vine-covered
balcony and there is such a constant serenade going on
that I declare I have come to hate the sound of music!
Thank Ieaven, Florencio, we were sensible in our youth
and not misled by such as she. For if she would, I be-
lieve Inés could have any man she pleased for a husband.
And I shall pity the one she accepts?!”

Again the head popped in at the door, showing that its
owner had been shamelessly eavesdropping. “Rest thy
mind, papito, for I am going to tell thee a secret. Do
not think that these were the only gifts received by La
Amapola. But they are the three she chooses to wear.
I have made up my mind at last, and after the triumph of
the dance, I shall give the fortunate one his answer. So
I have promised them! But I did not wear the gift of
the one alone, for I must tantalize him to the very end.
Ah, Don Florencio, if you have any daughters, send them
to me to learn lessons of success in love!” Again she
was gone. This time her mother angrily followed her.

- “The Lord forbid!” murmured Don Pio, but Florencio
sat in an enchanted daze.

The meal being at an end, the two friends lingered at
the table, drinking aromatic native coffee and smoking
long Porto Rican cigars. Don Pio wearily dismissed the
subject of his daughter and they fell to talking of other
things. “I'suppose even in the country you have all heard
of Roberto Cofresi?”

“The pirate?” replied the other quickly. “Yes, in-
deed! The sound of his name alone is enough to insure
obedience from our children.”

“I wish it had the same effect on mine. But be that
as it may, there are many interesting rumors afoot con-
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 287

cerning him. It is said that, although a price has been
placed upon his head and those of all his followers, lately
he has secretly visited Cabo Rojo again and at times has
lain hidden in the home of his mother, the widow
Cofresi!”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes; and I believe it to be true. It is said on good
authority that his schooner Ana lies at Boqueréon. And
canst thou imagine why he is here?”

“To plunder the town?”

“I hardly think he would do that to his birthplace. No,
it is said that he has returned on a mission of the heart!
No one can verify it, but rumor goes that he is courting
a certain girl of Cabo Rojo. Some even declare they are
already secretly married. I am a peaceful, law-abiding
man, I'lorencio, and late hours always find me safe in my
bed. Dut those who are less careful tell stories of odd
things which take place at night, of mysterious comings
and goings, and of masked men who ride through the
country on big horses fleet as the wind. I fancy Roberto
Cofresi would not dare show his face by day ; but I do not
think he will be taken by night either, for the authorities
will be very timid about laying hands on one with such a
reputation for lawless deeds on the high seas.”

“What thou sayst is most interesting,” replied Flo-
rencio. “I should like to see a pirate—from a safe
vantage point,” he added hastily, and they both laughed.

Dofia Prudencia came in to inform them that crowds
were gathering in the plaza and that the fireworks which
would precede the ball were about to begin.

“And Inés, does she accompany us?”

“She prefers to wait until it is time for her dance.
288 TALES OF BORINQUEN

Alas, Pio, I would not be so sad about her dancing in
public if she were doing it whole-heartedly for the money
which it will bring to the poor. But I know she does it
for the sheer pleasure of being the center of attraction.”

Florencio observed that the mother’s eyes were red.
“Ah,” he thought, “money has not brought blessings ta
these people. Perhaps, had they remained poor and ob-
scure, their daughter would have grown up modest and
good.” He felt very sorry for them; yet, as he walked
into the plaza with Don Pio and Dona Prudencia, he
found himself thinking less about their difficult problem
than about their daughter’s miraculous beauty. He
waited with keen anticipation to see her dance.

Others among the noisy, restless throng waited with far
greater impatience than he, and the most impatient of all
were three men who mingled with the crowd, anxious ta
avoid their friends and acquaintances. No smile came ta
the pale face of Iduardo, the lovelorn wood-carver, as
he watched two small boys squabbling over a piece of pig
crackling. He was wondering whether La Amapola
would carry his fan, whether she would look on him with
her coveted favor, and he turned his back abruptly on a
friend who invited him to join a game of chance in one of
the booths nearby.

Miguel, the young man who made the arduous trip ta
San Juan twice each month with a great load of palm-
straw hats, sat plunged in reflection on a bench, oblivious
even when the excited pressing people trod on his feet.
In his imagination burned and glowed the image of Inés
Isérn. He clenched his fists, vowing that if she did not
marry him he would do away with himself. He raised
haggard eyes above the gay lanterns to the stars gleaming
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 289

 

 

Along the road to Cabo Rojo.
290 TALES OF BORINQUEN

among the foliage of the mango and quenepa trees. He
lowered them and looked into the church where the
candles burned. “Oh, San Miguel, aid me,” he prayed
fervently.

On the other side of the plaza, a dark-haired, homely
man leaned carelessly against a tree, his small eyes fixed
greedily on a house across the street. This was Don
Cipriano Toro, and he was fairly certain that La Amapola
would soon be his. Had she not accepted the costly ear-
rings he had given her? He smiled slowly, and his smile
was not a pleasant thing to see.

Other minds and hearts there were, too, on the plaza
that night, which turned again and again to thoughts of
the fairest face they knew. The fireworks were finished
and the last note of the evening service in the church had
been sung. Suddenly the music of an orchestra burst
noisily forth, red fire blazed up all around the dance plat-
form, and people surged forward shouting : “La Amapola!
Viva La Amapola!” Amidst a perfect frenzy of cheers
and applause, the bewitching daughter of Don Pio Isérn
sped on to the platform in a flash of color. Instantly,
castanets a-clicking, she was off in the wild, graceful
whirl of a gypsy dance, while every eye was for her and
her alone, and every heart panted in rhythm to the riotous
music.

Poor inexperienced Florencio stared open-mouthed.
Never in his meager existence had he dreamed that he
would witness such a captivating spectacle. He followed
each movement of the inspired dancer with eyes com-
pletely spellbound, easily forgetting in an instant all the
disagreeable things he had seen and heard about her, lost
in the ecstasy of viewing her potent charm.
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 291

Florencio was recalled from his trance by a hand
plucking at his sleeve. He turned bewildered to face the
mocking eyes of Don Pio, who said: “Thou, too, my
poor friend! Did I not tell thee she could weave a spell ?
Look at these silly people all about us! They have for-
gotten everything in the world except that small witch
dancing there, and she knows it! Now she is in her ele-
ment, feeding her insatiable vanity on its favorite food.
But, oh, Florencio, how canst thou look thus enchanted
when thou rememberest her nonsense of an hour ago,
when thou stoppest to think on her heartlessness? For,
alas, flattery has destroyed her heart. She is my child,
yet I tell thee truly, I predict a terrible retribution for
her. She has played her role long enough. I1—"

Don Pio never finished his speech. Suddenly there
came a tremendous clatter of galloping hoofs, and into
the very midst of the panic-stricken, wildly-scattering
mob dashed a group of masked horsemen. Right at the
foot of the platform where La Amapola stood arrested
in the last fantastic position of the dance, they reined
in so abruptly that their horses reared, endangering all
who stood nearby. In the midst of a stunned silence
one of the mysterious horsemen vaulted from his saddle
on to the dance floor, snatched Inés in his arms before
she could move, leaped back on to his horse, and the
whole party whirled about and galloped off, disappear-
ing as swiftly as they had arrived.

Immediately there arose a tremendous furor, as people
ran distractedly hither and thither, which finally resolved
itself into a concerted cry of “COPRESI!”

Within the crushing mass, Don Pio, his face deathly
white, clutched the terrified Florencio’s arm and shrieked
292 TALES OF BORINQUEN

into his ear: “She has met the fate prescribed by her
vanity, for she has been seen and desired by a pirate, and
he has taken her according to his code!”

Such was the case. The famous and much-feared
pirate, Roberto Cofresi, had secretly returned to his old
home in Cabo Rojo. Never in his rovings had he lost
the image of one whom he had known when a child—
one Juanita, whose appeal for the handsome, dark-eyed
pirate lay in the large blue eyes and pale gold hair which
caused her to stand out alone amongst her sisters. He
had clandestinely courted her, and she had been afraid to
refuse him. While he had been thus occupied, his law-
less companions had surreptitiously roamed the country-
side, the more daring ones even venturing into Cabo
Rojo under protection of darkness. Thus one of them
had chanced to see Inés Isérn as she promenaded in the
plaza on a Sunday night and had set his bold heart upon
her.

Cofresi’s wedding day was approaching, and on board
his ship all was rejoicing. The huge pirate who was
enamored of Inés Isérn had gone eagerly to his master,
stated that he, too, wished to take a wife, and begged to
be allowed to carry out the daring plan which he had
formulated. Cofresi, under the spell of his own ro-
mantic success, had hilariously consented to the escapade
— twas even said he had participated in it. Thus had
resulted the dramatic capture of the beauteous Amapola,
who doubtless paid full penalty for her incurable van-
Hy ou.
In the country around Cabo Rojo, though all these
events took place more than a century ago, one may yet
hear the tale of this “crimson flower,” plucked rudely by
THE CRIMSON FLOWER 203

the pirates in the height of her bloom and never seen or
heard of more. Especially will old dames recount it with
many headshakes to young maidens who show a tendency
to become vain over their beauty, “the very shallowest,”
they point out, “of all women’s attributes!”

THE MASTER SEA
(SONNET)

Nor is there peace for man, his mind, or soul,
Beside this changeless, ever-changing sea!
Twelve months of watching sails slip out, and he
Bars windows fast and goes to pay sweet toll

To wanderlust. He harks to waves that roll
Inimitably rhythmic in their plea

That he shall grant them immortality

Through measured similes rhymed on a scroll.
But even should he stay, or no word write,

He could not rest; for then the restless sea
Would draw his soul into its gloom-wrapt night
Upon vain quests to find why souls should be—
Would call it in pursuit, through wide-blue days,
Of phantom ships along uncharted ways.
204
WHEN FLAMBOYANT TREES ARE BLOOMING

28

TALES OF BORINQUEN

Where slumbrous seasons, rich in sun,

Roll their luxuriant course,

And flowers are the years’ eternal garb,
It needs far more

To waken men than frail spring-blooms

Which thrill the northern heart,

Or one swift-soaring frosted autumn leaf
For winter's store.

So, one bright day in tropic spring,

Flamboyant trees blaze forth

As kindled by a heaven-held fiery torch
Swung far and free.

Each blossom is a drop of blood,

A jewel, a spurt of flame;

Uncounted thousands richly glow to grace
The wide-spread tree.

Come! up and down the green-clad hills

Through sunlit Spanish towns,

Where roads climb high, descend and curve to reach
The Carib. Sea...

With scarlet arches overhead,

Vermilion path beneath,

And red-decked gala countryside, here’s wild
Festivity.
 
 
 
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g

 

 

CIRCULATION DEPT.

YF

 

 

"MAR 07 19%

 

~~

APR 171380

 

 

 

APR 1 2 2007

 

 

 

 

FORM NO. DD 6 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
: : BERKELEY, CA 94720
U. C. BERKEL EY | BRARIES

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