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44 DAYS IN THE SUN
screech of the Christmas geese, while in the narrow
streets of Seville peasants are guarding their flocks
of turkeys. Occasionally, an electric tramcar creeps
along, gently driving these fowl ahead of it into the
nearest public square.
Christmas is at hand; I have felt it all week in the
growing restlessness which replaces the usual care-free
spirit of the rest of the year. The word Christmas
(Navidad) is on every man’s lips in this country and
in every man’s thoughts. The stiff Spaniards in digni-
fied drapery who daily gather to fume over the change
of cabinet or the latest bullfighter, now amble about
as excited as if they were really looking for work. Or
they may stand alone in front of some wall counting
out their change and assembling it from the various
pockets of their vests. If they converse at all, it will
be on the subject of money and Navidad. I have even
seen them do, these last few days, what is ordinarily
left to the women; in full public view they kneel down
for hours before the Madonna or before some other
saint in the cathedral, murmuring the word Navidad
to themselves. The beggar says Navidad as he puts
out his hand; my washerwoman stammers words of ex-
cuses as I catch her in the act of charging me double
prices; and all the women who are gathered with huge
bundles before the entrance of the government pawn-
shops have only the single word Navidad to exchange,
accompanied by nods of understanding.
The whole world is so completely involved in
Navidad, in the approaching Christmas feast, that you
imagine you have never before witnessed such power-
ful and all-embracing piety.
Suddenly you remember that Navidad no longer
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