“But the tamales?”
“I like tamales. You shall make them for me.”
“What would my poor mother say?”
“We can let her know later, and she will be glad to have thee free from that cochino. Listen, lindita: Beyond this tunnel is a big red house that they say is the National Palace of Los Angeles, and here one must get a permit to marry, though the priest really does the work. Let us seek the red house.”
“Oh, Pablo! Now?”
“Yes, querida.”
Hand in hand, the lovers left the adobe, and the somber echoing tunnel, with the electric wires seen like a spider’s web across its farther end, was to them an underground passage to Paradise.
—Copyright, and used by kind consent of the author.
Note.—Spanish words are pronounced according to the continental pronunciation, and each vowel is given a syllable. “Si Ma-dre,” pronounced See Ma´dray, yes, mother. “Ma-ma-ci-ta,” pronounced Ma-ma-cee-tah, little mother. “Sin Ver-gu-en-za,” pronounced Seen Vehr-goo-ain´tha, shameless. “Que-ri-di-ta,” pronounced Kay-ree-dee´tah, little love. “Por-ta-les,” pronounced Por-tah´lays, covered sidewalks. “Gente decente,” pronounced Hen´tay day-then´tay, the aristocracy. “Coch-i-no,” pronounced Co-chee´no, pig. “Lin-di-ta,” pronounced Leen-dee´ta, pretty. “Que-ri-da,” pronounced Kay-ree´da, beloved.