"The class is dismissed," said our teacher to us.
She had scarcely spoken these words when we jumped to our feet and ran as fast as we could to our homes.
"Have you not seen your father? Where is he?" said my mother as soon as she caught sight of me. I looked back and saw my father coming.
"Here he comes," I said to my mother.
"Prepare yourself, Leopoldo. We will go to the mountain," said my mother.
"Why? There is a casco of rice coming," I answered.
"No, that is not a casco of rice. If that is a casco of rice, the people on the beach wouldn't run away to the mountain. Get yourself ready, quick," replied my mother.
It was a cloudy afternoon. The wind blew hard. Nothing could be heard but the moaning of the wind on the trees and houses, the running of men and women along the streets and the crying of babies. The streets were full of people, all running in the same direction. Some carried trunks on their heads, others had bundles of clothes on their backs. Some carried infants in their arms, others had them on their hips. The little boys and girls ran beside their parents. It was indeed a piteous sight!
While my father and mother were busy putting our things in a carreton I was going up and down the stairs every ten minutes. I did not know what to do. When I was upstairs I wanted to go downstairs. When I was downstairs I wanted to go up. I wished to carry with me my shoes because I knew I needed them on the mountain. But I also wanted to carry my black coat. At last I thought of the bread that my mother had bought that morning. I took it all. Just then my father and mother had put our trunks, in the carreton. We all got into the carreton—my father, my mother, my little brother, my sister, and myself. My father was the driver. We left our home, our minds full of the gloomiest forebodings.