Page:Six Months In Mexico.pdf/175

Rh high and low voices complete the attractions of the beautiful Mexican sala.

the Mexican skies, where everybody treats life as if it were one long holiday, they love with a passion as fervent as their Sun, but—on one side at least—as brilliant and transient as a shooting star. Yet there is fascination about it which makes the American love very insipid in comparison.

In childhood, boys and girls are never permitted to be together. There is no rather sweet remembrance of when we first began to love, or having to stand with our face in the corner for passing “love letters,” or the fun of playing "Copenhagen” when we didn't run one bit hard. It is only of a dirty little schoolroom filled with dusky ninos, all of the same wearing apparel, who studied “out loud;" a fat little teacher who never wore tight dresses, and who only combed her hair “after the senoritas had gone home." A scolding French master and an equally bad music master completes the memories.

When Mexican damsels reach that "hood" which permits of long dresses and big bustles, they are in feverish expectation until, during a walk or drive, a flash from a pair of soft, black eyes tells its tale and a pair of starry ones sends back a swift reply, and with a tender sigh she realizes she has learned that which comes into the lives of them all. That night she peeps from behind her curtains and watches him promenade the opposite sidewalk back and forth, the gaslight throwing his shadow many feet in advance, which, she vows—next to him—is the most beautiful thing she ever gazed upon. She does not show herself the first time or does he expect it. Modesty or custom prevents. Just as he takes off his hat to breathe a farewell to her balcony, a white handkerchief flutters forth for an instant, he kisses his finger tips, the light goes out, and both retire, longing for manana noche.