The Milan exchange. (Milan, Gibson County, Tenn.) 1874-1978, 1878-11-28
A MuehachO" Of the Mexican Camp,

His name was Estaban Avilla, and he
was called "for short" " Banito."
We became acquainted one afternoon
on the road to the Mexican camp. l
had just met Tommy Job Ia Cornish
lad who brought our milk in the morn
ing and our mail in the afternoon) and
taken from him two or three letters, and
was sitting on dusty rock by the road
side reading them. A step pausing be-
side me, and shadow falling across my
page, looked up and saw pair of
black eyes looking down. Bsnito did
not want to read my letters-he thought
1 was drawing, and all the miners chill
dren in both the Cornish and Mexican
camps felt at liberty to look over my
shoulder when was sketching. 1don't
think | ever invited them to do so.
They did it quite naturally, regarding
it, perhaps, as part of that right to life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, to
which most of them were born. fold
ed my letter up and looked at Banito,
whereupon he gave a short laugh and
darted off up the hill. Just at the top,
where the road winds out of sight round
q shoulder of the hill, with the shadow
of live-oak tree lying black across it,
he stopped and looked back, his little,
dark figure between the blue sky and
the reddish-yellow road. Nothing else
to be seen except the ive-oak tree with
its spot of black shade.
1t took me some time to climb the
hill up which Banito had fed so quickly,
then saw him curled up in the limbs
e L Af,x NJ unit
half-shy, half-saucy smile.
"Come down and let me draw pic
ture of you," l said. (The Mexican
children play with those of the Cornish
camp, and understand English quite
well.) He laughed and turned his head
away sharply, but 1 knew he would
come down.
"COme where | can sit in the shade, :"
l said, "and bring my stool"
/ left the little camp stool in the mid
die of the road and walked on slowly,
as if waiting for him.
"There is big shade down there. "
He pointed to the slope of the hill
where another live-Oak leaned his dark,
twisted trunk away from the wind. All
the trees lean the same way, for the
same untiring steady wind blows for
months and months over these hills.
/ Their boughs are trimmed, on the I'M
| der-side, as smoothly as the top of a
hedge, as far as the hungry cattle can
reach. l made myself comfortable in
the 90 big shade" and began sharpen
ing a pencil. Banito made himself
comfortable in the sun, pulling at the
dry punches of sage-gr, IS, and looking
at me from the shadow of his hat-brim
with those queer, dubious chances.
If the camp-children had been robins
in spring, and we the first ripe cherries,
they could not have found US more
quickly, or focked more gayly and
noisily about us. There were mucha-
chos from the Mexican camp-every
shade of brown and yellOw-there were
rosy, saucy, irrepressible Cornish young
sters. / tried to keep them near me, SO
my shy little model might be undisturb
ed; but one ruddy-brown Mexican boy
checks the color of russell apple in
October-stole behind him and pricked
him in the neck with a sheep-burr.
Catching my eye, he plunged back
into the midst of the group under the
tree.
Iasked his name, and Banito said il
was his brother, Francisco, and that he
was ''very bad;' but he laughed as he
said it. Then remembered his face as
one of flock of six that crowded round
me one day when sat making a sketch
under the shadow of the high, bare
porch of their ''casa."
The mother, leaning over the railing,
had told me all their names. She, too,
had said Francisco was very bad
/ {" muey malo," she called it), and she,
/ too, had laughed. l asked Francisco
where he kept all his badness, for
could not see any of it in his face. Bad
boys do not look as happy as Francisco
did, and he Struggled in among his
comrades as if he were sure of well
come. He looked merry, wild and dir
| ty. dare say he tore his clothes, and
was sad trouble to his mother. A lit
tie girl who logged my elbow and was
invited to move further off (and cordial
ly assisted to do so by all her neighbors)
had the bluest eyes that ever shone I'M
der torn hat brim.
"Was she not a Cornish girl?'' l
asked.
"No," she said; "I'm English"
"Were you not born at the mine?
PERHAPS you are an American"
No, ma'am. l amt a 'Merican. l
was born down to San jose"
Another little girl coughed and look
ed as if she had been ill. She told me
they ''was allays sick back there" AMI
when I tried to find out where "back
there" was-where she had lived before
coming to the mine-she only answer
ed my repeated questions with: "Oh,
in kind o. brown house back there. "
Banito had been very still for some
time, and his face began to droop as if
he were tired; so L hurried with the
sketch. The children, hearing the
heavy wheels of the stage rafting up
the last hill, scampered off to welcome
itson its arrival, in company with the
dogs and other noisy livestock of the
camp.
Banito looked wistfully after them,
but with the prospect of "two bits -
resigned himself to five minutes longer
Two bits " represents large share
of the joys of this world to an Almaden
boy. For two bits you can get of Costa
the vegetable man "a ripe, spicy
musk-melOn as big as your head, or
watermelon twice as big, or hatful of
peaches, or a double handful of fresh
figs, or two paper bags of sale candy
at the store. A Cornish lad might put
it in tin bank until Christmas and the
new stock of toys arrived, but Next
can neverl
When 1 was making Banito's portrait,
ne held dark little object by string; !
it was " horned toad" They are |
strange little creatures-so delicatrly |
made, yet so roughly carved and fret
ted; so siil, sometimes for long min
utes, that they might indeed be carved |
stone or fretted bronze; then, at a sud
den movement, they will slide off as
swift and silent as shadow. They are |
utterly deaf-even a pistOl-shOt fired |
close to ones head would not disturb |
his immovable stillnes if he saw moth
inc tn alarm They seem To have a i