Puslapio vaizdai
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Suddenly the chatter of the sergeant's teeth

Stopped. He was angry, too; And he whispered: "Are you game? Get the Maxim gun!"

I hugged him. “It will scare them blue.”
Slowly, very slowly, we rose to our feet;

I was conscious of my knocking knees.
The murmur of their voices was an eery sound

Like wind in wintry trees.

I saw them staring from the tail of my eye

As the tripod legs we set.
We lifted the gun and clamped it on,

With the muzzle at the parapet.
Nervously I pushed in the tag of the belt;

The sergeant loaded and laid Quietly, deftly; the click of the lock

Was the only sound he made.

"Ready!" he nodded. I turned my head

And nearly collapsed with fright.
Four of them were standing at my shoulder,

The others to the left and right.
Then, "Fire!" I shouted, and the gun leaped up

With a roar and a spurt of fame.
The sergeant gripped the handles while the belt ran through,

Never stopping to correct his aim.

Fearfully I turned, then jumped to my feet,

Forgetting all about the feed.
They were running like the wind up a long, steep hill,

With the thumb-and-finger man in the lead!
And high above the rattle and roar of the gun

I heard a despairing yell,
As Englishmen, Dutchmen, pikemen, bowmen,

Vanished in the night, pell-mell.

The men who were sleeping in the moonlit trench

Sat up and rubbed their eyes;
And one of them muttered in a drowsy voice,

“Wot to blazes is the row, you guys?"
The sergeant said: "That 'll do! That 'll do!"

But he whispered to me, “Keep mum!"
They would n't have believed that the row was all about

A finger and a huge, thick thumb.

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Suddenly the chatter of the sergeant's teeth

Stopped. He was angry, too;

And he whispered: "Are you game? Get the Maxim gun!"
I hugged him. "It will scare them blue."
Slowly, very slowly, we rose to our feet;
I was conscious of my knocking knees.
The murmur of their voices was an eery sound
Like wind in wintry trees.

I saw them staring from the tail of my eye
As the tripod legs we set.

We lifted the gun and clamped it on,
With the muzzle at the parapet.
Nervously I pushed in the tag of the belt;
The sergeant loaded and laid
Quietly, deftly; the click of the lock
Was the only sound he made.

"Ready!" he nodded. I turned my head And nearly collapsed with fright.

Four of them were standing at my shoulder,

The others to the left and right.

Then, "Fire!" I shouted, and the gun leaped up

With a roar and a spurt of flame.

The sergeant gripped the handles while the belt ran through, Never stopping to correct his aim.

Fearfully I turned, then jumped to my feet,
Forgetting all about the feed.

They were running like the wind up a long, steep hill,

With the thumb-and-finger man in the lead!

And high above the rattle and roar of the gun

I heard a despairing yell,

As Englishmen, Dutchmen, pikemen, bowmen,
Vanished in the night, pell-mell.

The men who were sleeping in the moonlit trench
Sat and rubbed their eyes;

up

And one of them muttered in a drowsy voice,

"Wot to blazes is the row, you guys?"

The sergeant said: "That 'll do! That 'll do!"

But he whispered to me, "Keep mum!"

They would n't have believed that the row was all about
A finger and a huge, thick thumb.

In a higher-grade room I was asked to choose the lesson, and suggested geography. A youth passed swiftly over the map with a pointer, spinning off a description of the principal cities, learned by rote, the priest in charge lifting him back on the track as often as he forgot the exact language of the original and came to a wordless halt. Little helpful hints accompanied every question. A youth stood before the map of Colombia, on which the capital was printed in enormous letters, when the priest asked:

ing and, taking up a bunch of enormous

"What city did Quesada found in keys, started across the cobbled street to1538?"

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that the priests kept him bound hand and foot.

"I had an excellent, experienced normal graduate in charge of that first class," he sighed, "and now we have that boy in a cassock! Bah!"

THE BARBER OF SAN PABLO

WE were startled to have the first boy we met in San Pablo admit that posada could be had. His own mother had a room to rent. He laid aside the hat he was weav

Blank silence from the youth.

The priest:

ward an adobe building. But at that momént a patched and bare-foot, though eloquent, man rushed down upon us, likewise offering us posada. For a time it looked as if for once, instead of having to fight for lodging, lodgings were going to

"Bo-Bogo-"

The youth, with great wisdom:

"Bogotá."

"Excellent!" murmured my fellow fight for us. We settled the dispute by the

simple expedient of asking each his price. "One real," answered the boy, defiantly.

visitors.

"And what place is this?" quizzed the teacher, pointing to an isthmus that curved up into a corner of the map like a tail. "Pa-Pana-"

"Panama!" shrieked the youth, "a province of Colombia which is now in rebellion. The "

He was evidently going on with more startling and fluent information when an all-but-imperceptible twitching of an eye of the Jesuit superior turned the pointer to other climes.

The teacher never lost an opportunity to give a religious twist to the proceedings. A boy whose pointer hovered about the Mediterranean mumbled:

"And another of the cities is Nicea-" The priest:

"Ah, what celebrated event in the history of mankind took place in Nicea?"

"The great council of the church in which-" began the youth, and rattled on as glibly as if he had been there in person.

When we had turned out into the street alone, the shabby little minister became confidential, explaining that the colegio toward which we were headed had once held a large student body, but now, owing to political changes, Señor Later he became even more frank, and complained

"In my oficina de peluquería," said the man, haughtily, "it will cost you nothing. Moreover, all foreigners always lodge there."

Behind his bravado he seemed so nearly on the point of weeping that we should no doubt have chosen his "office of barbering" even had there been no such vast gulf between the rival prices. He thanked us for the favor and, producing an enormous key, unlocked one of those unruly shop doors indigenous to rural South America, above which projected a shingle bearing on one side the information “Peluquería Cívica" and on the other the name of our host, Santiago Muñoz. The keyhole was in the shape of a swan; others in the town, and all through Nariño, have the form of a man, horse, goose, and a dozen other ludicrous shapes. These home-made doors of Andean villages never fit easily, and their locks have always some peculiar idiosyncrasy of their own, so that by the time the traveler learns to unlock the door of his lodging without native assistance he is ready to

move on.

Santiago let us into the usual white

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washed mud room, with a tile floor furnished as a Colombian barber shop, which means that it was chiefly empty and by no means immaculate, with two wooden benches, two tin basins, and a water pitcher, also empty or soiled; two homemade, or San Pablo-made, chairs, a lame table littered with newspapers from a year to two months old, a scanty supply of open razors, strops, Florida water, soap, and brushes scattered promiscuously about, a couple of once white gowns of "Mother Hubbard" form for customers, and in one corner a heap of human hair, chiefly black and coarse. Then there were the luxuries of a home-made candlestick, with some six inches of candle, and a lace curtain, worked with red and blue flowers, to cut off the gaze of the curious, except those who were bold enough frankly to push it aside and stare in upon us. Windows, to say nothing of glass, are unknown in these towns of the Andes. The barber gave us full possession, key and all,-we had to toss a coin to see who should burden himself with it when we went out, -and informed us that a woman next to the church supplied meals to travelers on demand.

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The benches were only fourteen inches wide, but they were of soft wood, and so delighted were we to find accommodations so plentiful that I was about to make a similar suggestion when Hays yawned:

The only way one can photograph these something at right angles to them

"Let's hang over here to-morrow." Late the next morning Santiago wandered in upon us.

"Last year another Meestear"-in the rural Andes the native form of this word is used as a common noun to designate not only Americans and Englishmen, but Germans, Swedes, Frenchmen, and even Spaniards-"stopped here," he began. "You perhaps know him. His name was Meestear Giuseppe."

We doubted it.

"But surely you must know him," persisted the barber, "for he was a foreigner also."

The rural Colombian conceives of the world as made up of two countries, his own, the chief one, and a smaller one, perhaps only a city, that lies outside its boundaries.

As he talked, the barber kept fingering a letter, and bit by bit he half betrayed, half admitted that he gave free lodging to estranjeros because he wished to keep on good terms with this outside world in general and in particular because he wished to find some means of sending six dollars to that little place beyond the national boundaries. When he had explained himself at length he turned the letter over

to us.

It was in correct Spanish, mimeographed to resemble a type-written personal communication, and told in several

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