TRAVELS IN MEXICO.
had an uneasy look, and one woman, a Mestiza, who was comely and had an anxious look, though a very sympathetic one,—as they say here, muy simpatica. Of the other women, one was fat and restless, and the other old and honest. They all worked well, not intermitting their labors for a minute. Supper was soon ready. After the fashion of the country, we first washed our hands in a calabash, and five minutes later that same calabash was brought in full of water to drink. Poor Alonzo had but two bowls besides calabashes, for he was only camping, and had no knife, fork, or spoon; so I took my jackknife, while they ate with fingers and tortillas. Tortillas and frijoles (beans) are the main stay of a Mexican cuisine. Upon the tortillas, as plates, you spread the beans, and with another corn cake, rolled up in shape of a spoon, you scoop in the frijoles. When the latter are finished, you eat the spoon, and then the plate, leaving no troublesome dishes to bother the cook.
Our companion was a Spaniard, lately from Europe, a pleasant, black-eyed young man, who was sent by a firm there to look after their interests in the logwood. There were no chairs, of course, and we sat in hammocks, while the food was placed on a box on a clean cloth. As we ate, more tortillas were brought, hot from the fire, handed to us on a cloth by the cook, and taken by us and clapped down on the table. Quite a pile was heaped up before we left, and these were taken and warmed over for the men. After eating, a calabash was passed around, full of water, for rinsing the mouth. The proper way is to fill the mouth with water, and, after inserting the finger and scrubbing the teeth, to spit it out. This custom prevails throughout Mexico, even among well-to-do people. Coffee and cigarettes then followed; the latter, in fact, were going all the time. By this time darkness had settled down, and some of the men retired to their hammocks. Though surrounded by strangers, and some with not very pleasant faces, I left all my arms outside the mosquito bar as I retired, conscious that they, as well as myself, were safe. Later in the season, in the highlands of Mexico, I would have sooner slept without my blanket than without my revolver;
