"Ah don' know how
ol' ah is, mahster," was one of her replies, "but ah born six
years befo' de cholera diskivered."
"When did you come to Panama?"
"Ah don' know, but it a long time ago."
"Before the Americans, perhaps?"
"Oh, long befo'! De French ain't only jes' begin to dig. Ah's
ashamed to say how long ah been here" (just why was not evident,
unless she fancied she should long ago have made her fortune and
left). "Is you a American? Well, de Americans sure have done one
thing. Dey mak' dis country civilize. Why, chil', befo' dey come
we have all de time here revolutions. Ah couldn't count to how
many revolutions we had, an' ebery time dey steal all what we
have. Dey even steal mah clothes. Ah sure glad fo' one de
Americans come."
It was during my Empire enumerating that I was startled one
morning to burst suddenly from the tawdry, junk-jumbled rooms of
negroes into a bare-floored, freshly scrubbed room containing some
very clean cots, a small table and a hammock, and a general air of
frankness and simplicity, with no attempt to disguise the
commonplace. At the table sat a Spaniard in worn but newly washed
working-clothes, book in hand. I sat down and, falling
unconsciously into the "th" pronunciation of the Castilian, began
blithely to reel off the questions that had grown so automatic.
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