The undersigned offers to cure anyone of any ailment, cases that are despaired of preferred, by the laying on of hands, from eight in the morning to eight at night, by a special power given him by the Almighty, and by prayer to the invisible divine beings, the only requirement being that those who present themselves shall not be under the care of nor taking any medicine prescribed by, a physician, and that they have faith in the brilliant future of the divinely gifted undersigned.
Apparently he had no connection with the disciples of a similar panacea in our own country.
The more customary “want ads” of our own land, of persons seeking or sought for work, are given a curious twist in Brazil for lack of the succinct word “wanted,” which is replaced by aluga, really meaning “rents.” Thus: “Aluga-se uma menina—there rents itself a girl to do housework.”
A news-stand on the mosaic sidewalk of the Avenida Rio Branco
A hawker of Rio, with his license and his distinctive noise-producer
The brush-and-broom man on his daily round through the Brazilian capital
Not the least curious of the contents of Rio newspapers are the illicit gambling advertisements. The state and federal lotteries are legal and may advertise as freely as the cambistas who sell the tickets on the streets may howl day and night hideous with spurious promises of easy fortune, but these official games reduce competition as much as possible by legal enactments. Some twenty years ago the director of the Rio Zoo began putting up daily on the gate a picture of one of the animals inside, in order to attract visitors to the establishment. A bright individual recognized this as a brilliant opportunity to start a new gambling scheme. He took the director into his confidence, gradually drew crowds to the gate, and the illicit lottery that resulted flourishes to this day. It is called “O Bicho,” a word meaning literally “worm,” but which in Brazilian slang applies to all animals, reptiles, birds, and even vermin. Twenty-five different “bichos” are used in the underground lottery of Rio, and every day the newspapers carry the notice: “O Bicho—For to-morrow ...,” followed merely by tiny pictures of, perhaps, a snake, a rabbit, and a bear. The game is against the law, yet even the chief of police plays it, and newspapers cannot be enjoined from publishing the announcements, because no jury has ever been officially convinced that they are not merely enigmas for amusing children.