Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earliest cock
crowed from the cottages of the hill-side, when the suburbs give
sign of reviving animation; for the fresh hours of dawning are
precious in the summer season in a sultry climate. All are anxious
to get the start of the sun, in the business of the day. The
muleteer drives forth his loaded train for the journey; the
traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle, and mounts his steed
at the gate of the hostel; the brown peasant from the country urges
forward his loitering beasts, laden with panniers of sunny fruit and
fresh dewy vegetables: for already the thrifty housewives are
hastening to the market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the valley, tipping the transparent
foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the
pure bright air, announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts
his burdened animals before the chapel, thrusts his staff through
his belt behind, and enters with hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black
hair, to hear a mass, and put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring
across the sierra. And now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle
senora, in trim basquina, with restless fan in hand, and dark eye
flashing from beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some
well-frequented church to offer up her morning orisons; but the
nicely-adjusted dress, the dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the
raven tresses exquisitely braided, the fresh plucked rose, gleaming
among them like a gem, show that earth divides with Heaven the
empire of her thoughts.
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