"'Bright is the fountain, When skies are blue.

Who washed my handkerchief?

Tell me true!'

'Three mountain maidens Of laughing look.

White went their feet In the running brook.

One threw in roses, And jasmine one.

One spread thy handkerchief In 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 s.p.a.ces as Heaven, Limbo, Purgatory, and h.e.l.l, 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 s.p.a.ces on the sidewalk, and the prisoner must make his choice. "This!" he ventures. "h.e.l.l!" 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 embarra.s.s 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, c.o.c.k-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 a.s.sail 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 _ninas_ 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 marry A maiden nice.

I may not tarry.

It is not this, Nor this, nor this.

'Tis only this Whom I want to marry."

[Ill.u.s.tration: CADIZ FROM THE SEA]

_Ambo, ato_ 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.

"_Ambo, ato, matarile, rile, rile?

Ambo, ato, 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.

1.

_Chorus._ "Who would say that the charcoal woman, Sooty, sooty charcoal woman, In all the city and all the land Could find a lover to kiss her hand?

2.

_Charcoal Woman._ "The little widow of good Count Laurel Has no one left her for kiss or quarrel.

I want a sweetheart and find me none.

Charcoal women must bide alone.

3.

_Chorus._ "Poor little widow, so sweet thou art, If there's no other to claim thy heart, Take thy pick of us who stand Ready to kiss thy sooty hand.

4.

_Chorus._ "The charcoal woman, the charcoal woman, Proud little black little charcoal woman, Goes seeking up and seeking down To find the Count of Cabratown.