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Drd. DAYS IN THE SUN
too, and the slender Andalusian horses canter nerv-
ously. Back to back with the old woman sits a gypsy
from the Sierra with naked feet and a horse-blanket
round his neck, who is selling sharp-mouthed wolf
cubs. The middlemen dash about with waving cloaks;
the gypsies blink smilingly with their lashless eyes,
and the water-sellers—the most indispensable crea-
tures in Granada, next to the beggars—cruise over the
square in every direction like swallows, glasses in their
hands and carrying their cork-tanks on their backs.
“Agua, here is agua! fresh clean water, snow-water,
ice-water!? Only the peasants stand motionless with
drops depending from their noses and holding the
heads of their wretched animals; for the moment they
have taken refuge behind a mute and persistent policy
of resistance.
Up and down the road paces an iron monster, not
unlike the portable engine of a steel threshing-caravan,
drawn by five little donkeys in single file. On it sits a
gypsy who eggs his donkeys forward with loud shouts,
at the same time stirring a cauldron; behind which
walks an old woman who pokes at the fire and sings
out “Caliente! caliente!’ Here you can buy a warm
breakfast for a penny. Cuttle-fishes of as bright a
red as new-born mice, bacon-rinds with the bristles still
on them—a handful of each, dripping with luscious
oil, and meant to be gulped down forthwith.
You can hear the looms rattling up in Albaicin, and
still higher, in front of the rocky caves, walks an old
gypsy woman hanging out red rags on the cactus to
dry. The color stands out like a brilliant trumpet
flourish against the light green mountain and blue sky.
I stroll into the park grounds on the other side of
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