...And children in multitude!--children of many races, and of many
tints--ranging from ivorine to glossy bronze, through half the shades
of Broca's pattern-colors;--for there is a strange blending of tribes
and peoples here. By and by, when the youths and maidens of these
patriarchal families shall mate, they will build for themselves funny
little timber-homes--like those you see dotting the furzy-green
plain about the log-dwelling of the oldest settler--even as so many
dove-cots. Existence here is so facile, happy, primitively simple,
that trifles give joy unspeakable;--in that bright air whose purity
defies the test of even the terrible solar microscope, neither misery
nor malady may live. To such contented minds surely the Past must
ever appear in a sunset-glow of gold; the Future in eternal dawn of
rose;--until, perchance, the huge dim city summon some of them to her
dusty servitude, when the gray elders shall have passed away, and the
little patches of yellow-flowered meadow-land shall have changed hands,
and the island hath no more place for all its children.... So they
live and love, and marry and give in marriage, and build their little
dove-cots, and pass away forever--either to smoky cities of the South
and West, or, indeed, to that vaster and more ancient city, whose
streets are shadowless and voiceless, and whose gates are guarded by
God.
But the mighty blind sea will ever chant the same mysterious hymn,
under the same infinite light of blue, for those who shall come after
them....
V
...No electric nerves have yet penetrated this little world, to connect
its humble life with the industrial and commercial activities of the
continent: here the feverish speculator feels no security:--it is a fit
sojourn for those only who wish to forget the harsh realities of city
existence, the burning excitement of loss and gain, the stern anxieties
of duty--who care only to enjoy the rejuvenating sea, to drink the
elixir of the perfect air, to dream away the long and luminous hours,
perfumed with sweet, faint odors of summer. The little mail-boat,
indeed, comes at regular intervals of days, and the majesty of the
United States is represented by a post-office--but the existence of
that office could never be divined by the naked eye.
A negro, who seemed to understand Spanish only, responded to my
inquiries by removing a pipe from his lips, and pointing the cane-stem
thereof toward a building that made a dark red stain against the green
distance--with the words: "Casa de correo?--si, señor! directamente
detras del campo, señor;--sigue el camino carretero à la casa colorada."
So I crossed plains thickly grown with a sturdy green weed bearing
small yellow flowers, and traversed plank-bridges laid over creeks in
which I saw cats fishing and swimming--actually swimming, for even the
feline race loses its dread of water here;--and I followed a curving
roadway half obliterated by wire-grass--until I found myself at last
within a small farmyard, where cords of wood were piled up about an
antique, gabled, chocolate-colored building that stood in the midst.
I walked half around it, seeking for the entrance--hearing only the
sound of children's voices, and a baby's laughter; and finally came in
front of an open gallery on the southern side, where a group of Creole
children were--two pretty blond infants, with an elder and darker
sister. Seated in a rocking-chair, her infant brother sprawling at her
feet, she was dancing a baby sister on her knee, chanting the while
this extraordinary refrain:
"Zanimaux caquéne so manié galoupé;--bourique--tiquiti,
tiquiti, tiquiti; milet--tocoto, tocoto, tocoto;
çouval--tacata, tacata, tacata."
And with the regular crescendo of the three onomatopes, the baby went
higher and higher.... My steps had made no sound upon the soft grass;
the singer's back, inundated with chestnut hair, was turned toward
me; but the baby had observed my approach, and its blue stare of
wonder caused the girl to look round. At once she laid the child upon
the floor, arose, and descended the wooden step to meet me with the
question--"Want to see papa?"
She might perhaps have been twelve, not older--slight, with one of
those sensitive, oval faces that reveal a Latin origin, and the
pinkness of rich health bursting through its olive skin;--the eyes that
questioned my face were brown and beautiful as a wild deer's.
"I want to get some stamped envelopes," I responded;--"is this the
post-office?"
"Yes, sir; I can give them to you," she answered, turning back toward
the gallery steps;--"come this way!"
I followed her as far as the doorway of the tiniest room I had ever
seen--just large enough to contain a safe, an office desk, and a chair.
It was cozy, carpeted, and well lighted by a little window fronting the
sea. I saw a portrait hanging above the desk--a singularly fine gray
head, with prophetic features and Mosaic beard--the portrait of the
island's patriarch....
"You see," she observed, in response to my amused gaze, while she
carefully unlocked the safe--"when papa and mamma are at work in the
field, I have to take charge. Papa tells me what to do.--How many did
you say?--four!--that will be ten cents.--Now, if you have a letter to
post, you can leave it here--if you like."
I handed her my letter--a thick one--in a two-cent envelope. She
weighed it in her slender brown hand;--I suspected the postage was
insufficient.
"It is too heavy," she said;--"you will have to put another stamp on
it, I think."
"In that case," I replied, "take back one of the stamped envelopes, and
give me instead a two-cent stamp for my letter."
She hesitated a moment, with a pretty look of seriousness--and then
answered:
"Why, yes, I could do that; but--but that would n't be doing fair
by you"--passing her fine thin fingers through the brown curls in a
puzzled way;--"no, that would n't be fair to you."
"Of course it's fair," I averred encouragingly--"we can't bother with
fractions, and I have no more small change. That is all right."
"No, it is n't all right," she returned--making the exchange with some
reluctance;--"it isn't right to take more than the worth of our money;
but I don't really know how to fix it. I'll ask papa when he comes
home, and we'll send you the difference--if there is any.--Oh! yes, I
will!--I'll send it to the hotel.--It would n't be right to keep it."
All vain my protests.
"No, no! I'm sure we owe you something. Valentine! Léonie!--say
good-bye--nicely!"
So the golden-haired babies cooed their "goo'-bye," as I turned the
corner, and waved them kisses;--and as I reached the wagon-road by the
open gate, I heard again the bird-voice of the little post-mistress
singing her onomatopoetic baby-song:
"Bourique--tiquiti, tiquiti, tiquiti; milet--tocoto, tocoto,
tocoto; çouval--tacata, tacata, tacata."