"
"How, then, do you live?"
"We don't live."
A general shout of laughter greeted this last reply, in which, after
a moment of puzzled hesitation, the _alcalde_ himself joined.
"So, you don't live?"
"Absolutely, no!"
"But you eat?"
"Very little. We are very poor."
"Well, what do you eat?"
"Cheese, _frijoles_, and an egg now and then."
"But, no _tortillas_?"
"No. We planted the last kernel of maize two days ago."
And so it was. The little stock of dried grass and maize-stalks
stored up from the present rainy season had long ago been consumed,
and the maize itself, which is here the real staff of life, had run
short,--and that, too, in a country where three crops a year might
easily be produced by a very moderate expenditure of labor in the way
of tillage and irrigation.
Fortunately for our poor animals, Dolores had provided against
contingencies like this, and taken in a supply of maize at La Union.
As for ourselves, what with a few eggs and _frijoles_, furnished by
the _alcalde_, in addition to the stock of edibles, pickled oysters
and other luxuries, prepared for us by Dona Maria, we contrived to
fare right sumptuously in Goascoran.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132