Jasper County Democrat, Volume 9, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 July 1906 — LITTLE PANCHA [ARTICLE]

LITTLE PANCHA

Pancha’s mother was a nice, clean little woman. Every afternoon, when the sun was on the other side of the caaa, she used to alt on a tule petate In front of her door, and, with her cigarette tucked over her ear, carefully comb her children’* heads. They sat quietly, after the fashion of Mexican children, while los animates were being decimated. All but Pancha. Whether Pancha objected to the •laughter of the innocents or it was just her “innate cussedness" no one could determine. Pancha was four and short and squat for that age. Her eyes were extraordinarily large and the blackest I ever saw. They apparently had no pupils. I was told her father and mother did not love her because she was so black. Pancha was indeed the black sheep of the family. She looked as’though she had been smoked, There was something pathetically savage about her. She was in a continual broil. The other children had but to say tauntingly, “Pancbita es mala!” to have her’fly at them like a wildcat. When outnumbered and outgeneraled, which was seldom, for she was a veteran of many tights, she would go •way to a path on the mesa, where the dust was thick and the nepales grew la plenty. Cue very hot day we were all sitting out in the patio under a big green awning, the tinkling of the fountain and the drowsy chirping of the birds the only sounds, and we were all sleepy. There was a long tiled corridor lead Ing to the patio, and In this I heard tho mozo remonstrating with some one. When I went in Pancha was there, defiantly eying the big nu>zo. She grinned with delight on seeing me und held out in a hot. grimy little hand a present for me. Something muy bleu. It was hers, all hers, but now It was mine. She watched my face with open anticipation of my delight. It was a piece of meat wrapped In a soiled tortilia—a tortilla Js not a napkin, but Its capacity for getting soiled is just as great ns though it wt*e linen Instead of a comestible. But meA—think of it! When had Pancha a piece of fat pork before? And she was giving it to me! I thiftk it Is on my credit side that I ate with every appearance of delight. That piece of fried pork cemented <n:r friendship. one of Pancha’s treasures, ranking above her rosarlo and her scapular. Was one beautiful earring, which dangled to her square shoulder. It was a long glass ruby about the size of the pendants hung from lamps. The other ear contained a bit of straw, keeping the car under cultivation. One d iv I went down to Guanajuato. When 1 returned I brought Pancha a pair of earrings. My thrifty New England friend said: “Why earrings? Why not something useful?” Because. And then there js another reason. Children detest useful presents. Once I snw a little boy revive two Christmas presents. One was the right boot for the right foot, and the other was the left boot for the left foot. Was Jie grateful? Xot a bit of It. He cried long and loud. Pancha’s earrings were silver—big hoops wrought in a design that looked like lace work. Pancha was very happy the day she received them and went about swelling her little pigeon breast in pride, the earrings shining white against her brown cheeks. Next day she had her mother put on her little fiesta dress, a frock of red cotton, and submitted to have her hair brushed and her face washed, then came proudly up the steep grade to the casa grande to visit and show her finery. The little fat woman, her great eyes glistening with excitement, sat in

* big armchair In the xala eating her cakes and drinking deep of the milk. Before the burden of entertaining her became onerous she slid from her chair and, to my surprise, came to me to be kissed before starting for her home. She went down the grade used by the ox wagons. There was ar deep cut In one place, where the grade had been unusually steep. Here she was lost to view. A moment later there was a tremendous rattling and pounding along the road. I ran, filled with anxiety, for once before I had known of the eight mule teams to become frightened and tear down that steep road, maiming the mules and killing the driver. I reached the bluff, and, looking down into the cut, I saw—can I ever forget it?—the poor little waddling figure In Its red dress, trampled down by the frightened mules, crushed and rhangled by the great wheels of the heavy ox wagon. I heard one pitiful wail. When we picked up the bruised little heap I found In the bosom of her frock several small pieces of bread that she had stowed away to take home. I insisted that her loved earrings be buried with her, washed the dirty little hands and face and made a wreath of jasmine for her head. Afraid they might resent my interference, I did no more. The stiffened remains were wrapped in a white cloth and placed on a board —coffins cost too much for the very, very poor in Mexico. So they covered her face, and the father, putting the board on his head, carried her down in the night thirty kilometers to the graveyard. He rented a tiny piece of ground and dug the grave himself. The priest was a kind old fellow and gave his services for nothing, which was fortunate, for poor Narisco had 25 centavos for his whole expenses. Thus Panchita, in her gay red dress and silver earrings, was laid away in the consecrated ground.—Edith Wagner In San Francisco Argonaut.