ur
valet.

I rise at length, dress myself, and sit in my ventana. I have a good
view of the plaza and the adjacent streets, with their rows of brown
adobe houses, and dusty ways between.

I gaze, hour after hour, on what is passing without. The scene is not
without novelty as well as variety. Swarthy, ill-favoured faces appear
behind the folds of dingy rebozos. Fierce glances lower under the
slouch of broad sombreros. Poplanas with short skirts and slippered
feet pass my window; and groups of "tame" Indians, pueblos, crowd in
from the neighbouring rancherias, belabouring their donkeys as they go.
These bring baskets of fruit and vegetables. They squat down upon the
dusty plaza, behind piles of prickly pears, or pyramids of tomatoes and
chile. The women, light-hearted hucksters, laugh and sing and chatter
continuously. The tortillera, kneeling by her metate, bruises the
boiled maize, claps it into thin flakes, flings it on the heated stone,
and then cries, "Tortillas! tortillas calientes!" The cocinera stirs
the peppery stew of chile Colorado, lifts the red liquid in her wooden
ladle, and invites her customers by the expressions: "Chile bueno!
excellente!" "Carbon! carbon!" cries the charcoal-burner. "Agua! agua
limpia!" shouts the aguadord. "Pan fino, pan bianco!" screams the
baker; and other cries from the vendors of atole, huevos, and leche, are
uttered in shrill, discordant voices. Such are the voices of a Mexican
plaza.

They are at first interesting. They become monotonous, then
disagreeable; until at length I am tortured, and listen to them with a
feverish excitement.

After a few days I am able to walk, and go out with my faithful Gode.
We stroll through the town. It reminds me of an extensive brick-field
before the kilns have been set on fire.

We encounter the same brown adobes everywhere; the same
villainous-looking leperos lounging at the corners; the same
bare-legged, slippered wenches; the same strings of belaboured donkeys;
the same shrill and detestable cries.

We pass by a ruinous-looking house in a remote quarter. Our ears are
saluted by voices from within. We hear shouts of "Mueran los Yankies!
Abajo los Americanos!" No doubt the pelado to whom I was indebted for
my wound is among the ruffians who crowd into the windows; but I know
the lawlessness of the place too well to apply for justice.

We hear the same shouts in another street; again in the plaza; and Gode
and I re-ent