“They are saints of us all,” Pemberton interrupted, “Christians as well as Catholics. Peter and Paul pray for us all!”
Concepcion was glad of that. “You asked,” she said, confidentially to me, “something of the blessed saints. At the convent where I was educated, they have a great reverence for San José. Last year the nuns were in much need of a house in the country where they might go in summer. So they tied a little house around the neck of the statue of San José. Well, what do you think? Last August a lady died and left the convent her country house. Would you believe it? The house is exactly like the little house the sisters tied about San José’s neck. The other day, being in great need of a pig, they tied a small pig about the saint’s neck. That prayer has not been answered, but the sisters are sure that they will have their pig before the month of Mary is over.”
“Prophecies sometimes fulfill themselves,” said Pemberton. “What Concepcion tells you is perfectly true; I know the house; it is just possible some one in the convent knew it, too. Do not say so to Concepcion. If she had not ‘taken up’ with me, she might, some day, have been the prioress of that convent.”
Domingo de la Resurrecion
There was little sleep in Seville the night of Sabbado de Gloria! The streets were crowded, the music and the laughter only stopping when the Easter bells began to ring. Under our windows three boys squatted on the ground playing at cards and rattling dice. They were “flush of cash”; perro chicos and grandes clinked as they changed hands.
“Cacahuete!” cried the peanut man. The largest cardplayer bought a double handful of nuts, dividing them fairly with the other two.
“Eá! los altramuzes!” The seller of lupins, a peasant in a brown capa, stopped at the hail. After some haggling, the second sized boy laid in a stock of the large green lupin beans the people eat at all odd times of day and night. The chicos munched their lupins, spat, and munched again, their game of brisca going cheerfully on, not without some discussion. The smallest lad, he who wore a working blouse and a blue cap, won heavily. At the end of the hand he scooped the coppers into his pocket, scrambled to his feet and strolled jauntily away singing:
“En los sopas y amores los primeros son los mejores” (with soups and with loves, the first are the best).
“Vengo sofocado!” (I suffocate with rage) cried the big boy who had lost most. “Maldita sia tu estampa!” (accursed be thy beastly portrait).
Was he mean enough to draw out of the game when he was winning? The winner crossed the street, loitered outside a sweets shop opposite, flattened his snub nose against the pane, and gazed at the goodies. At last he entered the shop, reappearing with a paper bag full of sweets of Jijona, cakes of almond paste and honey. The cakes were shared equally, the big boy shuffled the cards, the little one “shook” for deal, and the interrupted game of brisca began again.