Chapter V

...No electric nerves have yet penetrated this little world, to connect its humble life with the industrial and commercial activities of the continent: here the feverish speculator feels no security:--it is a fit sojourn for those only who wish to forget the harsh realities of city existence, the burning excitement of loss and gain, the stern anxieties of duty--who care only to enjoy the rejuvenating sea, to drink the elixir of the perfect air, to dream away the long and luminous hours, perfumed with sweet, faint odors of summer. The little mail-boat, indeed, comes at regular intervals of days, and the majesty of the United States is represented by a post-office--but the existence of that office could never be divined by the naked eye.

A negro, who seemed to understand Spanish only, responded to my inquiries by removing a pipe from his lips, and pointing the cane-stem thereof toward a building that made a dark red stain against the green distance--with the words: "Casa de correo?--si, señor! directamente detras del campo, señor;--sigue el camino carretero à la casa colorada."

So I crossed plains thickly grown with a sturdy green weed bearing small yellow flowers, and traversed plank-bridges laid over creeks in which I saw cats fishing and swimming--actually swimming, for even the feline race loses its dread of water here;--and I followed a curving roadway half obliterated by wire-grass--until I found myself at last within a small farmyard, where cords of wood were piled up about an antique, gabled, chocolate-colored building that stood in the midst. I walked half around it, seeking for the entrance--hearing only the sound of children's voices, and a baby's laughter; and finally came in front of an open gallery on the southern side, where a group of Creole children were--two pretty blond infants, with an elder and darker sister. Seated in a rocking-chair, her infant brother sprawling at her feet, she was dancing a baby sister on her knee, chanting the while this extraordinary refrain:

"Zanimaux caquéne so manié galoupé;--bourique--tiquiti,
tiquiti, tiquiti; milet--tocoto, tocoto, tocoto;
çouval--tacata, tacata, tacata."

And with the regular crescendo of the three onomatopes, the baby went higher and higher.... My steps had made no sound upon the soft grass; the singer's back, inundated with chestnut hair, was turned toward me; but the baby had observed my approach, and its blue stare of wonder caused the girl to look round. At once she laid the child upon the floor, arose, and descended the wooden step to meet me with the question--"Want to see papa?"

She might perhaps have been twelve, not older--slight, with one of those sensitive, oval faces that reveal a Latin origin, and the pinkness of rich health bursting through its olive skin;--the eyes that questioned my face were brown and beautiful as a wild deer's.

"I want to get some stamped envelopes," I responded;--"is this the post-office?"

"Yes, sir; I can give them to you," she answered, turning back toward the gallery steps;--"come this way!"

I followed her as far as the doorway of the tiniest room I had ever seen--just large enough to contain a safe, an office desk, and a chair. It was cozy, carpeted, and well lighted by a little window fronting the sea. I saw a portrait hanging above the desk--a singularly fine gray head, with prophetic features and Mosaic beard--the portrait of the island's patriarch....

"You see," she observed, in response to my amused gaze, while she carefully unlocked the safe--"when papa and mamma are at work in the field, I have to take charge. Papa tells me what to do.--How many did you say?--four!--that will be ten cents.--Now, if you have a letter to post, you can leave it here--if you like."

I handed her my letter--a thick one--in a two-cent envelope. She weighed it in her slender brown hand;--I suspected the postage was insufficient.

"It is too heavy," she said;--"you will have to put another stamp on it, I think."

"In that case," I replied, "take back one of the stamped envelopes, and give me instead a two-cent stamp for my letter."

She hesitated a moment, with a pretty look of seriousness--and then answered:

"Why, yes, I could do that; but--but that would n't be doing fair by you"--passing her fine thin fingers through the brown curls in a puzzled way;--"no, that would n't be fair to you."

"Of course it's fair," I averred encouragingly--"we can't bother with fractions, and I have no more small change. That is all right."

"No, it is n't all right," she returned--making the exchange with some reluctance;--"it isn't right to take more than the worth of our money; but I don't really know how to fix it. I'll ask papa when he comes home, and we'll send you the difference--if there is any.--Oh! yes, I will!--I'll send it to the hotel.--It would n't be right to keep it."

All vain my protests.

"No, no! I'm sure we owe you something. Valentine! Léonie!--say good-bye--nicely!"

So the golden-haired babies cooed their "goo'-bye," as I turned the corner, and waved them kisses;--and as I reached the wagon-road by the open gate, I heard again the bird-voice of the little post-mistress singing her onomatopoetic baby-song:

"Bourique--tiquiti, tiquiti, tiquiti; milet--tocoto, tocoto,
tocoto; çouval--tacata, tacata, tacata."