Let us follow them to their homes up on the mountain side. Some of the huts are built closely together. Others are scattered about on lonely ledges. Shall we go inside one of these huts? The woman who has just returned has thrown her burden into a corner.
The fire has been carefully smoldered, and this she now blows into a flame and then proceeds to prepare the evening meal.
About the other cottages are women squatting on their heels, gossiping with one another. In the ditch near by little children paddle about. Their voices are soft and pleasant, and their play merry and good-natured. We hear no quarreling.
Now their mother calls them to bring in some sticks for the fire. When these are added to the flame, the firelight shines out in the darkness and guides the father on his homeward way.
He has been working on the coffee plantation near, and is now climbing the narrow, winding path up the hill with his load of plantains. Perhaps the wife will cook some for supper.
The children satisfy their hunger, and then creep into their corner or hammock and are soon fast asleep.
Out in the darkness we hear the tinkle of a homemade guitar. Now another, and then another, takes up the Spanish or Indian air. Perhaps the beater of a drum is added to the little band of musicians which has gathered in an open space near the small village.
The natives compose much of their own music, and wild, strange melody it is. It seems to inspire one with a wish to dance. The Puerto Ricans are very fond of this amusement, and when they hear the music of the band, they gather around for a frolic.
Once a week, at least, they gather for a dance; and this, with their cock-fighting and gambling, is almost their only form of amusement.
Few of these people can write or read. They have no books and can not afford to buy even a newspaper.