[Footnote: Cake, or thick porridge made of maize.] What a child he was, to
be sure, to be so pleased at the idea of the possession of a pigeon!
"But, madre," he protested, "I am going to train it to carry messages.
There's no knowing what _my_ pigeon will do!"
"Si! Si!" She replied absently as she turned to see if the charcoal was
right for the baking.
It was a mean little house, at least so it would seem to most American
children--just three rooms overlooking one of the side canals, and over
a fish shop. It was built of brick (no one knew, how long ago), and was
wedged in between others, of exactly the same type.
But it was home, and whatever else it lacked, it had a front window, with
shutters, and a balcony with an iron railing, and when tucked up in their
beds at night, in the tiny dark alcove, the children could hear the soft
swish of the water against the embankment.
In spite of the window, even the best room was never very light, and only
an occasional streak of sunshine found its way in, but on those rare
occasions it fell upon the choicest treasure of the home, a rude colored
print of the Virgin, in a modest shrine, hung with gilded fringe. On the
shelf above, Luisa took care to see that a lamp was ever burning, and on
the table before it stood always a tiny vase of fresh flowers. What matter,
that the carpet was old, and the furniture worn, the Virgin's shrine was
there!
Unconsciously, the children trod gently in this room, and their
laughter was subdued, but in the kitchen--ah, there, their spirits were
unrestrained.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25