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the famed Tyrian purple. It was introduced into Europe from Mexico, where the curious little insect was nourished with great care on plantations of cactus.’” “Just as they do next door,” I remark. W. goes on, unheeding. The sunlight is scattered like silver coins among the little round stones and on the pink verbena which nestles round the tank. The goldfish swim lazily near the surface, and the big red one eats a bit of floating stick, and then, just as I am beginning to be anxious, spits it out again to quite a surprising distance. It must have a very strong popgun inside it. A gray lizard comes out and suns himself on a patch of sunshine on the watercourse. On the edge of the tank, in a wicker pot, stands a tiny orange tree, about a foot high, composed of two twigs. On one of them are two oranges; the other is in full blossom. The H.’s bought it for half a dollar in the town. W.’s eyes leave her book and follow mine. “I can’t live any longer without a little tree like that,” she says. “Now that I have seen it, I know that I have been wanting it all my life.” “As R. said, when he married F.,” I reply. “Go on.” Thud! Down comes a ripe orange on to the stones. W. shuts Prescott with a will. It is an understood thing that she eats any oranges that fall from the trees. She says she looks upon it as a sacred duty to prevent waste. She cer
tainly performs it. The other day, after a gale, she was seriously indisposed. “They do come down with a bang,” she says, releasing her features for a moment from the severe strain of suction, and gazing
up into the foliage above us, where orange flowers and oranges, green and yellow, are all tangled together. “You will die of one
on your head some day.” We no longer read as we used to do under
the betanga tree, because the small scarlet
fruit is always dropping from among its white
DOILIES MADE BY TENERIFFE WOMEN.
blossoms, and distracts W.’s attention continually. She says it tastes like hair-oil and medicine, and urges me to try it, but I have lately taken so much medicine and so little hair-oil that I have not the courage. Amid the singing of the canaries another sound mingles suddenly – the Sweetest sound that can reach the ear in a thirsty land – the murmur of running water. Suddenly, also, the fallen rose and bougainvillea leaves in the dry watercourse begin to move swiftly, borne along by the down-coming water, and in another moment it is rushing and dancing all round us, overleaping its miniature white channels, and filling the whole air with music. Juan, the gardener, comes hastening down to regulate its course among the trees of the garden and the vegetables below the terrace, for none must be wasted. Water is an expensive commodity in Teneriffe. Juan is a melancholy young man, dressed in white, with a black sash round his waist, instead of the usual red one, because he is a widower. His little son, Juanillo, runs at his heels. Juanillo is generally clad in a pink shirt, encrusted with earth. But, as today is a saint's day, and a balloon is to go up from the bull-ring, his face is washed and powdered, and his father has arrayed him in his best blue cotton frock and sailor hat. It is a girl's frock, but his father is not aware of that, and no one, not even the old garden woman who sits opposite him on her heels picking tomatoes half the day, has told him of the mistake. “W.,” I say reproachfully, “Prescott.” “This climate does not further intellectual development,” says W., unabashed. “One wants the accessories of chilblains and a red nose and a fog to foster the cultivation of the mind. Just look at that beetle walking out of that clump of mignonette. What a green coat of mail! Hot weather, I should have thought, for plate armor. And – oh! look at those two red dragon flies above the tank.” We both gaze at them. The large, clashing blue ones we have seen before, but these, blood-red, poised above the water, are new to us. Perhaps when the hibiscus flowers die they turn into red dragon flies! A gentle chatter reaches us in our orangeflower nook. “The Icod women,” V. says, and down goes Prescott on his face on the stones, and she is off. I am hardly less excited, but I pick up Prescott and follow more slowly. Some Icod women with their exquisite
drawn thread work have appeared here once before, and we have for some time past been anxiously waiting for others to descend from their mountains. They are squatting on their heels, spreading out their wares on the clean stone flags under the oleander tree near the front door. The oleander ought not to be in flower in February, but it is, and has hung out dusky pink blossoms here and there among its long leaves. The women nod and smile at us, as if we were old friends. One wears an orange silk kerchief on her head, and the other one of violet silk. They are both dressed in white cotton gowns with a pink sprig, and wear white, embroidered aprons. V. is standing by them in the sunshine. I have often seen her gardening in England in the white blouse and blue linen skirt which she is wearing now, without noticing them. But under this blazing sky these ancient garments take out a new lease of color, and startle the eye by their vividness. Even the silver clasps at her waist seem to have undergone a fresh burnishing. She looks quite as gaily attired as these Spanish girls. I advance cautiously. I endeavor to preserve an air of indifference, as if merely strolling past. “Barat! Barat!” screams the pretty woman in the violet kerchief, spreading out a white gown.
I look at it, shaking my head. The embroidery is exquisite. The spider web, the wheat sheaf, the rose, and the red cross, are all there beautifully finished. She throws it over a piece of pink material, and the color shines through, bringing the cunning tracery of white threads into delicate relief.
I look at my watch. Eleven o'clock. Two hours before luncheon. I may have time to buy that gown. Last time they were here it took two hours to buy a white petticoatandanapron.
Gradually the household gathers around us. Victor, in easy undress, with a water jug in his hand, strolls out. Candelaria follows. The cook joins the group, holding an
w STREET SCENE IN SANTA CRUZ.
embroidered petticoat against her, and putting out an immense yellow-shod foot. She does this every time the women come, but she never buys anything. We have looked at everything; we know what we want. Business now begins. I retire to the other side of the path, and sit down under the pomegranate tree. V., who has in every respect a more flinty nature than I, conducts the bargaining. She takes up the white gown. “Quanto?” “Tres douros.” The women hold up three fingers. “Miss D., what’s a douro?” Miss D., from an upper window, replies, “A dollar.” “What’s a dollar?”
“Five pesetas.” “What's a peseta?” “A peseta is worth about eightpence.” “Then five about eightpences, and three times that would be —?” “Ten shillings.” W. utters an exclamation of astonishment and drops the gown. “My good woman, I am a pobra Inglesa.” “No | No !” Scream both the women, nodding and smiling at W. “Rica! Rica!” I have in the meanwhile found a small hole in the white gown. This is pointed out to the women with much pursing of lips and shaking of heads. “Two and a half dollars,” they both shriek together in Spanish, and toss the gown at W. “Two dollars,” says W., holding up two fingers. They shriek a dissent, and she tosses back the gown at them, and goes slowly indoors. I follow her. We withdraw into her bedroom, leaving the door ajar. The violet neckerchief follows to the door, and throws the gown once more at W. “Two and a half dollars.” W. throws it out of the room. “Two dollars.” The gown is thrown in again. “Two dollars and two dogs.” We close on the bargain. W. produces the money – two dollars, and two penny pieces of ten centimos with a lion on them. These the women call the big dogs, as they have no personal acquaintance with lions. The halfpence or five centimo pieces are little dogs. We then all go smiling out into the sunshine and begin buying a child's frock. The luncheon bell rings long before we have finished, and Mrs. D. implores us to remember that other women with equally good work will probably follow in a few days' time. And so they pack up their bundles and walk off with them on their heads, and we return to the prosaic side of life. But even luncheon is not very prosaic today, for the table is covered with pink roses and begonias of the same shade, and among them a hideous gray manthis, about three inches long, is walking, I must own, with remarkable dignity, considering that his legs are bent the wrong way. He looks more like a child's drawing of a dragon than anything else. We are going for a drive after luncheon,
and we have not to wait much more than “Now M.,” says V., reproachfully,“ don't half an hour beyond the appointed time be improving. We did our duty by Cortez before our carriage and three appears at the this morning, and this afternoon we ought to gate, and we set off. We do not wish to go unbend.” in state, but we find that three horses are more Our driver is certainly unbending. He usual here than a pair. Sometimes we see has lit a cigarette, and is resting his feet on two horses hitched to a carriage with a mule the top of the splashboard. The universal sandwiched between them.
smoking at first surprised us, but we are now We are soon clattering down the narrow becoming accustomed to be served by a shopstreets of
man who is Santa Cruz;
smoking, to see Santa Cruz the
a priest smokcapital; Santa
ing in the Cruz the dirty;
church, to be Santa Cruz
begged of by littered with
an old woman refuse and slov
who is smokenly soldiers
ing, and to see and mongrel
the young wodogs; Santa
men washing, Cruz the evil smelling, where
ing and renda few years ago
ing clothes, the cholera
with cigarraged and will
ettes in their rage again,
mouths. Our three
Presently we horses make a
pass a hole tremendous
scraped out of noise on the
the rock, some round stones
twenty feet between the
above the road. high yellow
It has excited and pink walls.
our curiosity Half the wo
before. It is men of the
apparently town are lean
inaccessible, ing out of their
yet shows windows and
signs of habiquaint, roofed
tation. On this in balconies.
occasion a man Two camels,
is sitting in it with patient,
with his long treacherous
MONUMENT IN SANTA CRUZ COMMEMORATING THE GUANCHES, THE white blanket,
ORIGINAL INHABITANTS OF TENERIFFE. faces passus
looking very on silent, padded feet, nearly brushing us with much at home, beside a small fire, the smoke their loads; a young woman, with black lace of which curls blue against the cliffside. mantilla and fan, comes out of a green door- “I know that you will always give out now way, followed by her duenna. A soldier in that you have seen the cave-dwellers," says the street is making love apparently to three V. “It will be my duty to tone down all sisters at once at an upper window. We rattle you say when we return home.” with many crackings of whips past the Plaza, I treat this remark with the silence it past the church where Nelson's flag is kept deserves. We are both dying to see these under glass, and so out along the sea road, the cave-dwellers, who live in the interior of the splendid new road, cut out of the living rock, island, and who are, we are told, a remnant which leads to nowhere and skirts the sea of the Guanches -- the original inhabitants for miles.
of Teneriffe before the Spanish conquest. * Cortez may have landed at this very point And now we turn back and see Santa Cruz
way to the New World,” I remark. lying like a handful of dice at the foot of a
sweeping range of hills, and beyond, behind, with it come the first large drops of rain. a small excrescence peeps up, like the top But we are nearly home now. We reach the of a sugar-loaf fresh from the stores. The gate, and leaving the carriage we run up the driver waves his cigarette at the sugar-loaf short drive. and says, “ Pica!”
The gust has fallen as suddenly as it rose. We have heard of the Peak all our lives. All is very silent in the garden, where the We have read how the straining eye of the birds nearly deafened us earlier in the day. traveler ever looks too low as he approaches Not a breath stirs. It is the lull before the Teneriffe, and then sees the Peak high in air storm. The low sun peers over the shoulder above him. We have waited patiently for of the hill. nearly a month, while “it kept itself to We look back. The peaks of the Grand itself.” Now our illusions drop from us. Canary lie clear and ethereal against an opal We gaze at that snow-covered bagatelle, sky, above a sea of changing amethyst, which and then at each other in silent indignation. near at hand melts to a shimmering green as
“ Is that all?" I say at last, in the tone of reflected larches in still water in spring. of a cabman looking at a “ long shilling.” Is that vision of a holy city, rising stainAnd apparently it is all, for a cloud rolls less, girt with amber, and crowned with before it, and it is gone. A low clap of pearl, above a sea of glass — can that be thunder is tossed about among the steep Santa Cruz? Nay, for surely we can almost ravines past which the road runs. Make see its streets of gold; in the silence we can haste home, coachman, or we shall be caught almost hear the song of those who walk in a storm! One black cloud after another therein in white robes. is hurrying up across the jagged hilltops. For one moment the rainbow flings its arch Our three horses make better speed uphill like a benediction across transfigured sea and than down, and we are soon clattering sky and gleaming town. And then, with a through Santa Cruz once more, and up the sigh — as of one who sees what God would main street. A sudden whirlwind of dust have him to be — our little island world hides catches us in the open by the bull-ring, and its face and breaks into a passion of tears.
BY JULIA B. TENNEY.
All right den, honey; if yer jes' lay perlite-like.
tell it to yer agin; but I 'specs yer den de trubble begin. mos' tired ob hearin' it by dis time.
Yer see, honey, I b’long to Miss Sally, Well it were dis yer way. Me an'an' cou'se she want tek me 'long wid her to Tobe growed up togeder, down in Fau- her new home, an' Mars' George — dat's yer quire, Virginny, on ole mars' plantation pa — he ain' mek no offer ter buy Tobe, long wid de udder servants (an' dere was spite ob de fac' dat Tobe he keep er throwin' lots ob 'em --- mos' as many as dere was out hints on de subjec'. chillun ob Isrul in de wil’nes, I reckon), 'Bout two days 'fore de weddin', I tries and we growed monstous sot on one Miss Sally. I goes in her room when she war ’nudder.
by herself, an' I axes her ain't Mars' George Tobe he'd tek me to all de bush-meetin's don’ want a good stable-boy. Den I say dat an’ de cake-walks, an' we was mostly always his hoss what he brung wid him fum Georgy mo'ners togeder at de funels spite ob de res when he cum ter spen' de summer look ob de yung blades dat was always er tryin' mighty rusty an' po', like he ain' been to cut Tobe out wid me.
rubbed down right; an' I say he don' look He warn't much to look at, dat's sho', like old mars' hoss what Tobe tek care obkase he war as freckled as a guinea-keat's he jes' as fat as a pig 'fore Chris’mus, an' egg, an' sguint-eyed, too, let ’lone bein' as shiny as mars' bal' haid. tur’ible short an' bow-legged; but he war B ut Miss Sally she jes laff, an' say: “I always kind and gentle-like, and he ac' like reckon dat's one word fur de hoss an' two a real white gemman in his ways wid de fur Tobe, ain' it Cynthy?” An' den she go