They did. The woman came to meet us with her brown baby, and the young husband took his gun and went out to find his supper—partridge from the wood, probably, and oysters from the beach. They had lived there three years, the woman said. Her name was Anita, her husband’s Gaspar, the baby was Rafaello. No, they did not work much. They had a few sweet-potatoes yonder, and sometimes she braided palmetto and took it down to the city to sell. Gaspar had a dug-out, and sometimes he sold fish, but not often. They had every thing they wanted. Did she know any thing about this old place? No, she did not. Couldn’t she find out? Yes, she supposed she could; her people had lived along the Matanzas for years; but she never took the trouble to ask. Should she send that brown baby to school when it grew larger?
“To school?” And the young mother laughed merrily, showing even, white teeth, and tossing up the little Rafaello until he crowed with glee. “None of us-uns goes to school, my lady.”
“But what will he do, then?”
“Do? Why, live here or somewhars, jes as we’re doing,” replied Anita. “That’s all he wants.”
“A great many people come over here in the season, do they not?” I asked, abandoning my educational efforts.
“Yes, pleasant days folks come.”
“Do you think the ladies are pretty?”
“Sometimes,” replied Anita, with a critical air.
“Wouldn’t you like to look as they do?”
“Oh no,” replied our “nut-brown mayde,” with a broad, contented smile.