Their voices are soft and pleasant, and their play merry and
good-natured. We hear no quarreling.

Now their mother calls them to bring in some sticks for the fire. When
these are added to the flame, the firelight shines out in the darkness
and guides the father on his homeward way.

He has been working on the coffee plantation near, and is now climbing
the narrow, winding path up the hill with his load of plantains. Perhaps
the wife will cook some for supper.

The children satisfy their hunger, and then creep into their corner or
hammock and are soon fast asleep.

Out in the darkness we hear the tinkle of a homemade guitar. Now
another, and then another, takes up the Spanish or Indian air. Perhaps
the beater of a drum is added to the little band of musicians which has
gathered in an open space near the small village.

The natives compose much of their own music, and wild, strange melody it
is. It seems to inspire one with a wish to dance. The Puerto Ricans are
very fond of this amusement, and when they hear the music of the band,
they gather around for a frolic.

Once a week, at least, they gather for a dance; and this, with their
cock-fighting and gambling, is almost their only form of amusement.

Few of these people can write or read. They have no books and can not
afford to buy even a newspaper.