CHAPTER V.
THE COFFEE-TREE
When the first white people came to Porto Rico they did not find any coffee among the other tropical fruits. To-day it is the most valuable product of the island, yet all the trees growing now came from a few plants brought here nearly two hundred years ago. Perhaps you would like to hear the story.
In the year 1714, all the coffee used in the civilised world was under the control of the Dutch. They were very jealous of other people growing it, but one of the governors of Amsterdam gave a single plant to the King of France. From this plant a few others were raised and sent across the ocean to Martinique, an island of the West Indies belonging to France.
The voyage was long. The fresh water on board the ship nearly gave out, but the man who had the plants in his care shared his allowance with them. They were thus kept alive, and from them have come the coffee-trees that cover thousands of acres of land to-day in Porto Rico, Martinique, and the other islands.
Manuel and Dolores delight in riding through the plantation at this season of the year; the rows of small, evenly trimmed trees, with their glossy green leaves, are always a pretty sight. But just now they are more beautiful than at other times, for each tree is a mass of snow-white blossoms, filling the air with their fragrance.
Dolores's mother hires some of the coloured children to collect petals of the coffee flowers as they drop upon the ground. She will fill jars with them to scent her drawing-room with their perfume; but no one is allowed to pick the blossoms from the trees, for each flower means a berry later on in the season.
As the fruit forms, it is first green, then a pale pink, and at last a bright red. Not all the berries ripen at the same time, as cherries do, so the autumn picking lasts several weeks.
After they have been gathered, the berries are first washed and then hulled by machinery. Even then, however, they are not ready for market, for they must still be dried. At Manuel's home this is done by spreading them on floors paved with stones, where the sun can shine upon them; but on larger plantations it is usually done by steam or hot air.
The men and women who work for Manuel's father are always busy, for there are many things to do besides attending to the coffee-trees. These stand in rows about fifteen feet apart, and between the rows there are "catch crops," as they are called. One can see sweet potatoes, pigeon pease, eddoes, and other vegetables.
Coffee-trees are quite tender, and need a good deal of shade when they are young, so banana and plantain trees have been planted between the rows to protect them from the hot sun.
Manuel's father does not pay his workmen in money; he gives them a certain number of plantains for each day's labour. They keep enough of this fruit to feed their families, and sell the rest in the towns near by.
The children stop for a chat with the overseer, then ride onward to the house, for dinner must be ready.
Just as the meal is over, and the family leave the dining-room, the convent bells begin to ring. It is six o'clock, the time for evening prayer, and all bow their heads in silence. Although Manuel is a little boy, he likes these quiet moments in the day. The air is filled with peace; it seems as though he feels God's love more fully than at any other time.
CHAPTER VI.
SONGS AND STORIES
Night falls suddenly on this beautiful home. There is no long twilight as in northern lands; and soon the stars are shining, myriads of them. They do not twinkle, but give a strong, steady light.
This is the best part of the day. The planter sits on the veranda, smoking; his wife, in her delicate evening dress, keeps him company. Teresa plays some sweet tunes on her guitar and sings, while her duenna sits back in a rattan chair and dozes. Manuel and Dolores dance together along the garden paths or play with their fireflies.
Hark! listen to that lively music coming from the homes of the workmen. We know there are mandolins among the instruments they are playing, but what is that strange, swishing noise we hear, keeping time with the other instruments? It is somewhat like the sound of shuffling feet. It is made upon gourds notched in many places, with holes in the shape of triangles cut in the necks.
A few nights ago Manuel and Dolores begged their father to take them over to the "quarters," as the cabins of the coloured farm labourers are called. Manuel said:
"We want to see the sport. They have such good times over there when their work is done, and do tell such funny stories. But, after all, papa, it's the way they tell them that I like best. Their black eyes are so solemn and look as though they believed every word that is said."
When the planter and his children drew near, they found the coloured people squatting in a big circle in front of one of the huts. The sun was just setting in a great round ball in the west. There was still light enough in the sky to show the shining dark faces ranged around. Two rows of glistening ivory teeth could be plainly seen in each face as the workmen jumped up to bow and smile before "Massa, little Massa, and little Missus." They were quite proud to be honoured by a visit from these great people. And now the sun suddenly dropped below the horizon, and the air seemed filled with the darkness.
It was the sign to begin, and the blacks, at a motion from their leader, started in with an old, old song not learned from books; it had been handed down from the time when their people lived in their native land of Africa. It was a song about a beautiful star, and before it was ended Dolores and Manuel felt as if the star itself were a living friend and helper of these ignorant, earnest people.
Sing! The word does not begin to describe the music they not only heard but saw and felt. The voices of the singers were sweet and rich; their bodies swayed back and forth, keeping perfect time. Their great round eyes rolled from side to side, and as they sang verse after verse, they seemed to forget their company as well as themselves. Their faces shone with a smile of perfect happiness.
When the song was ended a story was called for, and an old gray-haired man began to tell this tale of the elephant and the whale.
"Once upon a time an elephant was walking on the shore. He saw a whale in the water. He spoke to the whale and said:
"'Brother Whale, I can pull you up on to the shore.'
"'Indeed you can't,' cried the whale.
"'I bet three thousand dollars that I can,' the elephant answered.
"'All right, let me see you try,' the whale said, quickly, and went away.
"Soon afterward they met again. The whale spoke this time, and said:
"'Brother Elephant, I can pull you into the sea.'
"'What an idea!' said the elephant. 'No man in the world could pull me into the sea.'
"Brother Rabbit heard the two talking, and said:
"'I'll try it to-morrow at twelve o'clock.'
"He went away and got a piece of rope. He tied one end of it around the whale's neck and the other around the elephant's neck. Then he said:
"'When I speak the word you must both pull hard.'
"Now when the whale pulled, he dragged the elephant into the sea. He said:
"'You, Brother Elephant, think the little rabbit is doing all this.'
"Then the elephant pulled hard, and brought the whale into the surf. The whale caught underneath a shelf of rock and the elephant found himself fastened to a big tree.
"These two mightiest of creatures pulled and pulled, till at last the rope broke, and the elephant was jerked way back into the forest and the whale was jerked way out to sea. That is why you always see the whale in the ocean and the elephant in the woods."
There was a great clapping of hands when the tale was ended. After that, there were other songs and stories, while the faces of the people grew more earnest and eager after each one.
It was growing late, and Manuel's father said:
"Come, children, we must go now. Your mother will be watching for you. It is long past your bedtime."
As they walked homeward, Manuel was quiet for some time. Then he said:
"Father, what nonsense many of these stories are! Yet I like them, too, because they seem to bring one so near all living things. Even the rabbit and the elephant are brothers to them. It's a little odd, though, that in their animal stories they always make the rabbit the wisest."
Sometimes Manuel's father walks over to the "quarters" with his boy to see the dancing. It is wild and exciting; it fairly makes Manuel dizzy to watch the people twist and turn themselves about. It is so different from the slow, graceful steps he and Dolores have been taught.
One wonders if the children are not afraid of snakes in the long grass at night. No, for in all Porto Rico, it is said, a poisonous serpent has never been seen. In two other islands of the West Indies the most deadly snake of the Western world is found. This is the terrible fer-de-lance whose bite is so much dreaded; but this serpent has never made its way into Porto Rico. It probably drifted on limbs of forest trees from South America to the other islands, but never reached Manuel's home. The boy should be very grateful that it did not.
But there are other things for him to fear. When he goes to bed to-night, he will get Juana to look under his bed and in every corner of the room before he can settle himself to sleep. Is he afraid of burglars, do you suppose? He never thinks of them; but he knows that scorpions and centipedes can creep into the house, and even into his bed, without being seen. And oh! their sting means very great suffering. Manuel's mother was once stung by a scorpion's fiery tail, and the wound was very painful for a long time.
It was only a few nights ago that Juana found a centipede snuggled away under a cushion in the sitting-room. Suppose some one had sat down upon it unawares and been bitten! It makes the shivers creep up and down Manuel's back to think of it.
The word centipede, perhaps you know, means hundred-footed. These little insects travel quite rapidly, and although they do not cause death, they may make very painful wounds.
There are other things, too, to trouble Manuel and Dolores, for mosquitoes and fleas are always plentiful, and sometimes the children are awakened at night by an attack from a small regiment of cruel little ants, and sleep no more till morning.
There is a certain insect in the West Indies known as a "chico," "chigoe," or "jigger," and woe to the toes of the person whom it visits. It gets under the skin, and there lays many eggs and prepares to make itself very much at home. So if any person's toe begins to itch, he needs to have it examined at once, or there may be trouble. People have sometimes been obliged to have the toe, and even the foot and leg, cut off on account of the inflammation caused by a chico and her family.
But the curious thing about it is that this insect seems to prefer the toes of white strangers, so that Manuel and Dolores, who were born on the island, are pretty safe in going barefooted.