Spanish Highways and Byways

There is another washing game of more romantic sort, the chorus being: —

"'Bright is the fountain,When skies are blue.Who washed my handkerchief?Tell me true!''Three mountain maidensOf laughing look.White went their feetIn the running brook.One threw in roses,And jasmine one.One spread thy handkerchiefIn the sun.'"

Spanish children "play store," of course, but they are such dramatic little creatures that they need no broken ware for their merchandise. A row of them will squat down in the middle of the street, clasp their hands under the hollow of their knees, and crook out their arms for "handles." Then a customer wanders by, asking, "Who sells honey-jars?" The merchant disrespectfully replies, "That do I, Uncle of the Torn Trousers." The shabby customer answers with Castilian dignity, "If my trousers are torn, my wife will mend them." The merchant then opens negotiations. "Will you buy a little jar of honey?" "What's your price?" The merchant is not exorbitant. "A flea and a louse." The probabilities are, unhappily, that the customer has these commodities about him, and he inclines, though cautiously, toward the bargain.

"Your little honey-jars are good?"

"Very good."

"Do they weigh much?"

"Let's see."

So they pick up an hilarious little honey-jar by its handles and tug it away between them, not letting it touch the ground, to the sidewalk. Here the merchant and customer have designated four spaces as Heaven, Limbo, Purgatory, and Hell, but on a preliminary paving-stone – let truth need no apology! – they have done some artistic spitting, with the result that four different figures in saliva are presented to the little honey-jar. These four figures bear a secret relation to the four spaces on the sidewalk, and the prisoner must make his choice. "This!" he ventures. "Hell!" scream the merchant and customer, and drag him, shrieking and struggling, to his doom. The next, perhaps, will have the luck to hit on Heaven, for every little honey-jar must take his chance in this theological lottery.

Sometimes the market becomes a transformation scene. The children hold up their forefingers for candles, but embarrass the merchant by doubling these up whenever the customer is on the point of buying. Just as the bargain is about to be concluded, the little candles vanish and the children roll themselves into bunches of grapes, some proving sweet and others sour. Again, they make themselves over into pitchers, cushions, and all variety of domestic articles, becoming at last a pack of barking dogs which rush out on the customer, snap at his legs, and drive him off the premises.

Again, it is a chicken-market on which the Uncle of the Torn Trousers chances, where one by one he buys all the hens and chickens, but forgets to buy the rooster, and when, by and by, this lordly fowl, waxing lonely, cock-a-doodle-doos, the hens and chickens come scurrying back to him, more to the profit of the merchant than to the satisfaction of the customer.

In another of the chicken games, the Mother leaves Mariquilla in charge of the brood, with directions, if the wolf comes, to fling him the smallest. But he comes so often that, when the Mother returns, there are no chickens left. Then she and Little Mary go hunting them, hop-hop-hop through Flea Street, bow-wow-wow through Dog Street, and so on without success, until it occurs to them to scatter corn. Thereupon with peep-peep-peep and flip-flap-flutter all the chickens appear, but only to fly at the negligent Mother, who left them to the jaws of the wolf, and assail her with such furious pecks that she must run for her life, the indignant chicks racing in wild pursuit.

There is a market-garden game, where one acts as gardener, others as vegetables, and others as customers. Others, still, come creeping up as thieves, but are opposed by a barking dog, which they kill. The gardener summons them before the judge. A trial is held, with much fluent Spanish argument pro and con, and the prisoners are condemned to execution for the murder of the dog. But at the last thrilling moment, when they have confessed their sins to the priests, and been torn from the embraces of their weeping friends, the dog trots cheerfully in, so very much alive that all the criminals are pardoned in a general dance of joy.

The little girls have a favorite shopping game. In this the children are seated, shoulder to shoulder, in two rows that face each other. Every child takes the name of some cloth, silks and satins being preferred. The leader of the game runs around the two rows, singing: —

"Up the counter, down the counter!How can I buy enough?Down the counter, up the counter!I choose this velvet stuff."

Little Velvet immediately jumps to her feet and follows the leader, who continues choosing and calling, choosing and calling, until the stock is exhausted and she can go home with all her purchases most conveniently trooping at her heels.

But the plays dearest to the black-eyed niñas are love plays, of which they have a countless number. Most of these consist of the dancing, singing circle, with a child in the centre who chooses a mate. Some are as simple as this: —

"Milk and rice!I want to marryA maiden nice.I may not tarry.It is not this,Nor this, nor this.'Tis only thisWhom I want to marry."

Ambó, ató is hardly more elaborate. When in the exchange of question and answer, the child would choose her page and touches one of the circle, the mercenary mites dance on faster than ever, until she offers whatever gift she has, a flower, apple, or any trifle at hand. Then the page runs in and kneels before her. The circle dances about the two, singing the refrain, until the first child slips out and joins them, leaving the second in the centre to begin the game over again.

"Ambó, ató, matarile, rile, rile?Ambó, ató, matarile, rile, ron?1. "What do you want, matarile, rile, rile?What do you want, matarile, rile, ron?2. "I want a page, matarile, rile, rile.I want a page, matarile, rile, ron.1. "Choose whom you will, matarile, rile, rile.Choose whom you will, matarile, rile, ron.2. "I choose Pedro, matarile, rile, rile.I choose Pedro, matarile, rile, ron.1. "What will you give him, matarile, rile, rile?What will you give him, matarile, rile, ron?2. "I'll give him an orange, matarile, rile, rile.I'll give him an orange, matarile, rile, ron.1. "He answers yes, matarile, rile, rile.He answers yes, matarile, rile, ron."

"The Charcoal Woman" requires an odd number of players. The circle dances about a little girl who stands all forlorn in the centre. The chorus sings the first stanza, the child sings the second, which has reference to the fact that Spanish charcoal is often made from laurel wood, and the chorus, in a comforting tone, the third. Then, while the child runs about and about the circle as if seeking, the chorus angrily sings the fourth stanza, accusing her of ambition, and the little charcoal woman retorts with the fifth, making her choice as she sings the last four words. At this the circle breaks, the children quickly choosing mates and dancing by pairs. The one who is left without a partner takes her place in the centre as the next Charcoal Woman.

1Chorus."Who would say that the charcoal woman,Sooty, sooty charcoal woman,In all the city and all the landCould find a lover to kiss her hand?2Charcoal Woman."The little widow of good Count LaurelHas no one left her for kiss or quarrel.I want a sweetheart and find me none.Charcoal women must bide alone.3Chorus."Poor little widow, so sweet thou art,If there's no other to claim thy heart,Take thy pick of us who standReady to kiss thy sooty hand.4Chorus. "The charcoal woman, the charcoal woman,Proud little black little charcoal woman,Goes seeking up and seeking downTo find the Count of Cabratown.5Charcoal Woman."I would not marry the Count of Cabra.Never will marry the Count of Cabra.Count of Cabra! Oh, deary me!I'll not have him, —if you're not he!"

Just such coquettish touches of Spanish spirit and maiden pride appear in many of the songs, as, for instance, in one of their counting-out carols, "The Garden."

"The garden of our house it isThe funniest garden yet,For when it rains and rains and rains,The garden it is wet.And now we bow,Skip back and then advance,For who know how to make a bowKnow how to dance.AB – C – AB – CDE – FG – HI – J.If your worship does not love me,Then a better body may.AB – C – AB – C,KL – MN – OP – Q.If you think you do not love me,I am sure I don't love you."

Sometimes these dancing midgets lisp a song of worldly wisdom: —

"If any cadetWith thee would go,Daughter, instantlyAnswer no.For how can cadet,This side of Heaven,Keep a wifeOn his dollars seven?"If any lieutenantAsks a caress,Daughter, instantlyAnswer yes.For the lieutenantWho kisses thy handMay come to beA general grand."

And, again, these babies may be heard giving warning that men betray.

"The daughters of CeferinoWent to walk – alas!A street above, a street below,Street of San Tomás.The least of all, they lost her.Her father searched – alas!A street above, a street below,Street of San Tomás.And there he found her talkingWith a cavalier, who said,'Come home with me, my darling,'Tis you that I would wed.'"Oh, have you seen the pear treeUpon my grandpa's lawn?Its pears are sweet as honey,But when the pears are gone,A turtle-dove sits moaning,With blood upon her wings,Amid the highest branches,And this is what she sings:'Ill fares the foolish maidenWho trusts a stranger's fibs.She'd better take a cudgelAnd break his ugly ribs.'"

The dance for "Elisa of Mambrú" begins merrily, and soon saddens to a funereal pace.

"In Madrid was born a maiden – carabí!Daughter of a general – carabí, hurí, hurá!"

The song goes on to tell of Elisa's beautiful hair, which her aunt dressed so gently for her with a golden comb and crystal curling-pins, and how Elisa died and was carried to church in an elegant coffin, and how a little bird used to perch upon her grave and chirp, pio, pio.

Mambrú himself is the pathetic hero of Spanish childhood. This Mambrú for whom the little ones from Aragon to Andalusia pipe so many simple elegies, the Mambrú sung by Trilby, is not the English Marlborough to them, but, be he lord or peasant, one of their very own.

"Mambrú is gone to serve the king,And comes no more by fall or spring."We've looked until our eyes are dim.Will no one give us word of him?"You'd know him for his mother's sonBy peasant dress of Aragon."You'd know him for my husband dearBy broidered kerchief on his spear."The one I broider now is wet.Oh, may I see him wear it yet!"

At the end of this song, as of the following, the little dancers throw themselves on the ground, as if in despair.

"Mambrú went forth to battle.Long live Love!I listen still for his coming feet.The rose on the rose bush blossoms sweet."He will come back by Easter.Long live Love!He will come back by Christmas-tide.The rose on the bush has drooped and died."Down the road a page is riding.Long live Love!'Oh, what are the tidings that you bear?'The rose on the bush is budding fair."'Woe is me for my tidings!'Long live Love!'Mambrú lies cold this many a morn.'Ay, for a rose bush sharp with thorn!"A little bird is chirping.Long live Love!In the withered bush where no more buds blow,The bird is chirping a note of woe."

A game that I often watched blithe young Granadines playing under the gray shadow of Alhambra walls, seems to be a Spanish version of "London Bridge is Falling Down." Two children are chosen to be Rose and Pink. These form an arch with their uplifted arms, through which run the other children in a line, headed by the Mother. A musical dialogue is maintained throughout.

"Rose and Pink.To the viper of love, that hides in flowers,The only way lies here.Mother.Then here I pass and leave behindOne little daughter dear.Rose and Pink.Shall the first one or the lastBe captive of our chain?Mother.Oh, the first one runs too lightly.'Tis the last that shall remain.Chorus.Pass on, oho! Pass on, aha!By the gate of Alcalá!"

The last child is caught by the falling arms and is asked whether she will go with Rose or Pink. She shyly whispers her choice, taking her stand behind her elected leader, whom she clasps about the waist. When all the children of the line have been successively caught in the falling arch, and have taken their places behind either Rose or Pink, the game ends in a grand tugging match. Rose and Pink hold hands as long as they can, while the two lines try to drag them apart. All the while, until the very last, the music ripples on: —

"Rose and Pink.Let the young mind make its choice,As young minds chance to think.Now is the Rose your leader,Or go you with the Pink?Let the young heart make its choiceBy laws the young heart knows.Now is the Pink your leader,Or go you with the Rose?Chorus.Pass on, oho! Pass on, aha!By the gate of Alcalá!"

Another favorite is "Golden Ear-rings." Here the Mother, this time a Queen, sits in a chair, supposedly a throne, and close before her, on the floor, sits the youngest daughter; before this one, the next youngest, and so on, in order of age. Two other children, holding a handkerchief by the corners, walk up and down the line, one on one side and one on the other, so passing the handkerchief above the heads of the seated princesses. Then ensues the musical dialogue between these two suitors and the Queen.

"'We've come from France, my lady,And Portugal afar.We've heard of your fair daughters,And very fair they are.''Be they fair or no, señores,It's none of your concern,For God has given me bread for all,And given me hands to earn.''Then we depart, proud lady,To find us brides elsewhere.The daughters of the Moorish kingOur wedding rings shall wear.''Come back, my sweet señores!Bear not so high a crest.You may take my eldest daughter,But leave me all the rest.'"

The dialogue is transferred to one of the suitors and to the princess at the farther end of the line, on whose head the handkerchief now rests.

"'Will you come with me, my Onion?''Fie! that's a kitchen smell.''Will you come with me, my Rosebud?''Ay, gardens please me well.'"

In similar fashion all the daughters are coaxed away until only the youngest remains, but she proves obdurate. They may call her Parsley or Pink; it makes no difference. So the suitors resort to bribes, the last proving irresistible.

"'We'll buy you a French missal.''I have a book in Latin.''In taffeta we'll dress you.''My clothes are all of satin.''You shall ride upon a donkey.''I ride in coaches here.''We'll give you golden ear-rings.''Farewell, my mother dear.'"

In some of the many variants of this game, the Queen herself, adequate as she may be to earning her own living, is wooed and won at last.

I have not met with fairy-lore among these children's carols. The only fairy known to Spain appears to be a sort of spiritualistic brownie, who tips over tables and rattles chairs in empty rooms by night. The grown-up men who write of him say he frightens women and children. He can haunt a house as effectually as an old-time ghost, and a Casa del Duende may go begging for other tenants. One poor lady, who went to all the trouble of moving to escape from him, was leaning over the balcony of her new home, – so the story goes, – to see the last cartful of furniture drive up, when a tiny man in scarlet waved a feathered cap to her from the very top of the load and called, "Yes, señora, we are all here. We have moved."

So the childish imagination of Spain, shut out from fairyland, makes friends with the saints in such innocent, familiar way as well might please even Ribera's anchorites. The adventurous small boy about to take a high jump pauses to pray: —

"Saint Magdalene,Don't let me break my thigh!Oh, Saint Thomas,Help this birdie fly!"

The little girls express decided preferences for one saint over another.

"Old San Antón,What has he done?Put us in the corner every one."San SebastiánIs a nice young man.He takes us to walk and gives us a fan."

Santa Rita is best at finding lost needles, and San Pantaleón is a humorist.

"San Pantaleón,Are twenty and oneChildren enough for an hour of funSlippers of ironDonkey must try on.Moors with their pagesRide in gold stages.But if you want aGirdle, Infanta,Cucurucú,'Bout-face with you!"

At this one of the children dancing in circle whirls around, remaining in her place, but with back turned to the centre and arms crossed over her breast, although her hands still hold those of her nearest neighbors. The rhyme is sung over and over, until all the little figures have thus turned about and the circle is dancing under laughable difficulties.

But the dearest saint of all is San Serení. Two of the best-known games are under his peculiar blessing. One of these is of the genuine Kindergarten type, the children dancing in a circle through the first two lines of each stanza, but then loosing hands to imitate, in time to the music, the suggested action.

"San Serení,The holy – holy-hearted!Thus for theeThe shoemakers are cobbling.Thus, thus, thus!Thus it pleases us."

Even so it pleases seamstresses to stitch, laundresses to wash, carpenters to saw, silversmiths to tap, ironsmiths to pound, and little folks to dance, all for "San Serení de la buena, buena vida." In the second game, a gymnastic exercise, whose four movements are indicated in the four stanzas, he is apostrophized as "San Serení del Monte, San Serení cortés."

"San Serení of the Mountain,Our saint of courtesy,I, as a good Christian,Will fall upon my knee."San Serení of the Mountain,Where the strong winds pass,I, as a good Christian,Will seat me on the grass."San Serení of the Mountain,Where the white clouds fly,I, as a good Christian,Upon the ground will lie."San Serení of the Mountain,Where earth and heaven meet,I, as a good Christian,Will spring upon my feet."

With the legend of St. Katharine and her martyrdom childish fancy has played queer caprices.

"In Cadiz was a wean – ah!The gentlest ever seen – ah!Her name was Catalina.Ay, so!Her name was Catalina."Her father, Moslem cruel,He made her bring in fuel.Her mother fed her gruel.Ay, so!Her mother fed her gruel."They beat her Tuesday, Wednesday,They beat her Thursday, Friday,They beat her Saturday, Monday.Ay, so!They beat her hardest Sunday."Once bade her wicked sireShe make a wheel most dire,Of scissors, knives, and fire.Ay, so!Of scissors, knives, and fire."The noble Christian neighbors,In pity of her labors,Brought silver swords and sabres.Ay, so!Brought silver swords and sabres."By noon her task was ended,And on that wheel all splendidHer little knee she bended.Ay, so!Her little knee she bended."Then down a stair of amberShe saw the cherubs clamber:'Come rest in our blue chamber.'Ay, so!She rests in their blue chamber."

Little Spaniards are not too intolerant to make a play-fellow of the Devil. In one of their pet games, the children form in line, with the invaluable Mother in charge. To each child she secretly gives the name of a color. Then an Angel comes in with a flying motion and calls, for instance, "Purple!" But there is no Purple in the company. It is then the Devil's turn, who rushes in, usually armed with a table-fork, and roars for "Green." There is a Green in the line, and she has to follow the Demon, while the Angel tries again. All right-minded spectators hope that the Angel will have the longer array at the last.

The Virgin's well-beloved name comes often into the children's songs.

"For studying my lessons,So as not to be a dunce,Papa gave me eight dollars,That I mean to spend at once.Four for my dolly's necklace,Two for a collar fine,And one to buy a candleFor Our Lady's shrine."

Even the supreme solemnity of the Wafer borne through the kneeling streets cannot abash the trustful gaze of childhood.

"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,So gallant and so gay?''I am going to a dying manTo wash his sins away.And if I find him sorryFor the evil he has done,Though his sins are more than the sands of the sea,I'll pardon every one.'"'Where are you going, dear Jesus,So gallant and so gay?''I'm coming back from a dying manWhose sins are washed away.Because I found him sorryFor the evil he had done,Though his sins were more than the sands of the sea,I've pardoned every one.'"

The affairs of State as well as of Church have left their traces on the children's play. As the little ones dance in circle, their piping music tells a confused tale of Spanish history within these latter days.

"In Madrid there is a palace,As bright as polished shell,And in it lives a ladyThey call Queen Isabel.Not for count nor duke nor marquisHer father would she sell,For not all the gold in Spain could buyThe crown of Isabel."One day when she was feastingWithin this palace grand,A lad of Aragon walked inAnd seized her by the hand.Through street and square he dragged herTo a dreary prison cell,And all that weary way she wept,The lady Isabel."'For whom art weeping, lady?What gives thy spirit pain?If thou weepest for thy brothers,They will not come again.If thou weepest for thy father,He lies 'neath sheet of stone.''For these I am not weeping,But for sorrows of mine own."'I want a golden dagger.''A golden dagger! Why?''To cut this juicy pear in two.Of thirst I almost die.'We gave the golden dagger.She did not use it well.Ah, no, it was not pears you cut,My lady Isabel."

These dancing circles keep in memory the assassination of Marshal Prim.

"As he came from the Cortes,Men whispered to Prim,'Be wary, be wary,For life and for limb.'Then answered the General,'Come blessing, come bane,I live or I dieIn the service of Spain.'"In the Calle del Turco,Where the starlight was dim,Nine cowardly bulletsGave greeting to Prim.The best of the SpaniardsLay smitten and slain,And the new King he died forCame weeping to Spain."

This new king, Amadeo, is funnily commemorated in another dancing ditty, "Four Sweethearts."

"Maiden, if they ask thee,Maiden, if they ask thee,If thou hast a sweetheart —ha, ha!If thou hast a sweetheart,Answer without blushing,Answer without blushing,'Four sweethearts are mine —ha, ha!Four sweethearts are mine."'The first he is the son of —The first he is the son ofA confectioner —ha, ha!A confectioner.Sugar-plums he gives me,Sugar-plums he gives me,Caramels and creams —ha, ha!Caramels and creams."'The second is the son of —The second is the son ofAn apothecary —ha, ha!An apothecary.Syrups sweet he gives me,Syrups sweet he gives me,For my little cough —hack, hack!For my little cough."'The third he is the son of —The third he is the son ofThe barber to the court —ha, ha!The barber to the court.Powders rare he gives me,Powders rare he gives me,And a yellow wig —ha, ha!And a yellow wig."'The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret,The fourth? Oh, 'tis a secret.Our new Italian king —ha, ha!Our new Italian king.He gives me silk and satin,He gives me silk and satin,Velvet, gold, and gems —ha, ha!Velvet, gold, and gems.'"

Strangest of all is the dramatic little dialogue, which one with an ear for children's voices may hear any day in Madrid, telling of the death of Queen Mercedes.

"'Whither away, young King Alfonso?(Oh, for pity!) Whither away?''I go seeking my queen Mercedes,For I have not seen her since yesterday.'"'But we have seen your queen Mercedes,Seen the queen, though her eyes were hid,While four dukes all gently bore herThrough the streets of sad Madrid."'Oh, how her face was calm as heaven!Oh, how her hands were ivory white!Oh, how she wore the satin slippersThat you kissed on the bridal night!"'Dark are the lamps of the lonely palace.Black are the suits the nobles don.In letters of gold on the wall 'tis written:Her Majesty is dead and gone.'"He fainted to hear us, young Alfonso,Drooped like an eagle with broken wing,But the cannon thundered: 'Valor, valor!'And the people shouted: 'Long live the king!'"

Spanish wiseheads say that the children's choral games are already perishing, that the blight of schools and books is passing upon the child-life of the Peninsula, and soon there will be no more time for play. The complaint of the niñas is much to the same effect, yet they wear their rue with a difference: —

"Not even in the PradoCan little maidens play,Because those staring, teasing boysAre always in the way."They might be romping with us,For they're only children yet,But they won't play at anythingExcept a cigarette."Now let me tell you truly:If things go on like this,And midgets care for nothingBut to walk and talk and kiss,"No plays will cheer the PradoIn future times, for thenThe little boys of sevenWill all be married men."