entered the best room of the house, when one of my favorite Mexican processions approached the big door. A string of fifteen meek-looking donkeys laden with wood marched solemnly through the main hall just as they did in my own house, followed closely by the driver, uttering his characteristic "tschew! tschew!—and punching them at every step.
The parlor had its line of plain home-manufactured chairs, arranged methodically around the sides of the room, as close together as they could possibly be placed. At the extreme end, farthest from the door, was a home-contrived sofa, or divan, which extended almost the entire length of the room. It was built into the wall, having only the front legs visible. Its height was nearly two feet from the floor. At either end were seven hard stiff cotton pillows elaborated with Mexican lace, the product of a universal feminine instinct. The covering was a gay chintz, which was fastened to the framework as a cushion, and the upholstering was completed below by a valance of the same fabric.
The rocking-chairs,—home-manufactured also—occupied their normal attitudes as vis-à-vis, at either end of the sofa. I was tired from the long drive, and the rocking chairs had an inviting look, so without ceremony I ventured to take one. Instantly three women came to me, all laying their hands tenderly about me, and with one voice insisted that I must occupy the sofa.
To ascend this wonderful structure—"la sofacita," as it was called—I found it necessary to give a spring and a leap, almost as if vaulting into a saddle.
An unusual bustle and commotion about the house, and the continual passing back and forth of so many people, made it evident that some exciting event was about to take place. Two doctors were to perform some surgical operations. About half a dozen girls were
