We will visit Cuzco, the romantic and religious city of the Inca race; but we must not forget to sprinkle our handkerchiefs with perfume, for we have now got back to the hot climate, and the streets we are walking through are long and narrow and have an open drain running down the centre, a common thing in these cities. But if we would be missionaries some day, we must not mind the smells now, especially as we want to become acquainted with some of the “Pearls of Peru.”
For a minute or two we pause and watch the children, who seem to swarm everywhere. Some are playing at the nasty drain; no wonder these little ones droop and die, for there is no friendly policeman to warn them that this is a death trap!
Where do they all come from? Does no one look after them? For they are everywhere, in the road, on doorsteps, in the shops, round the booths in the market-place, under the shadow of the Roman Catholic Cathedral; scores of them, playing, sleeping, picking up scraps and eating them, uncared for, and untaught.
See! Who is this coming down the cobbly street, with a big, fat baby on his back? Only an Indian boy, and not very much bigger than his baby mistress. What a sad face he has; it does not attract us, for there is a shade of bitterness about the mouth. His is a hard life—driven to and fro by the whim of the baby’s mother; no thanks and no pay; only beatings if he does not please her. An Indian slave! You look surprised! But this is quite a common thing in Peru and other parts of this continent.
“Only an Indian slave!
A prey to his mistress’s whim,
Beaten, battered, and starved,
What does she care for him?
‘A soul, did you say, he possessed?’
She laughs: ‘Why, he’s worse than a dog!