their lines in fluent Spanish, with the rare lapses in memory quickly checked by their alert prompter.

The strip of ground is bright to-night. At one end is an altar, a rude wooden structure of graduated steps, covered with black sateen. It has a high back wall and a canopy, both of which are draped in black. This is the background for the nacimiento, or manger scene. Upon the various steps José and his wife have placed those objects they hold most dear and consider most beautiful: Christmas cards, tinsel, a pincushion in a golden slipper, a small statue of Buddha, and statues of the patron saints of every member of the family. The Star of Bethlehem twinkles at the top, and from the canopy hang streamers of green crêpe paper and dangling paper roses-an anomaly perhaps, but what of it? In the very center of the lowest step, below an image of the Virgin Mary, lies the Child Jesus (a life-sized baby doll) on a platter of gaudy Christmas candies. This modern version of the scene of the nativity is supplemented by small plaster figures of cows, sheep, and donkeys, of sizes entirely disproportionate to the human figures. It is considered a handsome nacimiento, and murmurs of "Qué bonito!" come to José's ears. Opposite the nacimiento, at the other end of the rectangle, is a tent with lurid scenes painted upon it, scenes showing volcanoes spurting fire and brimstone and devils waving 3-pronged pitchforks. Later the emergence of devils from the canvas flap will substantiate the belief that this is a veritable and orthodox hell. Before it, partly for warmth and partly to carry further the realism, is a small and struggling bonfire, which is replenished from time to time by one of the spectators, all of whom seem to enter into the spirit of the play with a great deal of informality.

We, as visitors, are treated with friendliness and are allowed to preempt two spaces on the already crowded bench. After that we are forgotten. It is a clear, cold night. The ground is chilled, and the wind whips around the corner of the house and into the napes of our necks. The proximity of a plump, brown señora is a comfort in such weather, although her baby occasionally sprawls into my lap and is charmingly retrieved by her mother with smiles and apologies. I look across at the row of diverse faces-old and wrinkled women with toothless grins, smooth-skinned young girls, mantilla-covered heads, and the flashing eyes and painted cheeks of an Americanized flapper. And there are fat old men, slim dashing young ones, men with grizzled beards, and others with neat mustaches. Complexions shade from cream to bronze. Everywhere, without exception, there is color-a gay dress, a bandana handkerchief wound about a young man's throat, a scarf, jagged with brilliance.

Suddenly, without any preliminaries, for there is no curtain to be raised and there are no lights to be lowered, a little girl in a stiff white

dress, white slippers, and white cotton stockings begins to walk up and down the runway between the nacimiento and the tent which is Hell. The crêpe paper wings on her shoulders flap dismally as she recites the long verse in her soft monotone and punctuates it with awkward gestures. When she is through she steps aside, and, just as casually, there appears a group of shepherds, resplendent in pink coats with tinsel or silver braid trimmings, a beaded satchel slung across the shoulder by a broad red ribbon; each one is carrying a richly ornamented staff, which jangles with numerous tiny bells. Most of these are young men; they shuffle to their places with painful self-consciousness and grin feebly when their friends wink or smile at them. As they arrange themselves, they drone out an endless song, which they will repeat again and again throughout the evening. The words may change, but the tune is always the same. Behind them prances the hermit, the comic relief, who wears a long gray robe festooned with moss, carries a rosary made of spools, and has the mask of an old man. This is really Antonio, and, as everyone has penetrated his disguise, he is greeted with cheers and jokes, for he is very popular. He acknowledges these by growling and shaking his staff.

Last of all come the devils, seven of them, each more imposing than the last. All but Lucifer are dressed in black, with sequins, beads, and mirrors sewed upon their mantles. These catch the light and send back a thousand lights in return. Lucifer wears a suit and cloak of brilliant red, a convincing forked tail appearing from the latter. These devils clank and flash their swords and speak in hollow muffled tones from behind their masks, which represent the grotesque heads of wolves and bears, as well as of imaginary monsters. Each devil dashes out with a Christmas sparkler flaming from his cap, a modern accessory to an ancient custom. Their entry is so precipitate that the women gasp and shrink back, and somewhere along the line a baby begins to cry.

Los Pastores is an interminable performance. The endurance of the audience must be as great as that of the actor. At last there is a lapse, the spectator heaves a sigh of relief, thinks the performance is ended, and then realizes that this is just a pause for breath. There are half a dozen battles between Good and Evil, each struggling for the soul of the Christ Child who was born that day. These are accompanied by the clanking of tin swords and a breathless harangue in Spanish verse. The shepherds sing endless songs, jingling at the same time the bells that hang from their overdecorated crooks. One of them, Bartolo, refuses to go farther on the pilgrimage to worship the Child. He says that he is tired, that he wants to go to sleep, and finally he spreads his blanket on the ground and lies down like a

willful child. His friends cajole, threaten, bribe. One of them, Tulio, pleads with him: "Bartolo, come look on Him with eyes of love," and Bartolo answers testily, "If thou'rt so anxious, bring Him here." At last he is won around, however, and resumes the journey, singing: To Bethlehem I take the road

With joy my Lord to know;

I offer to the Infant God

This lambkin white as snow.

At length the shepherds reach the nacimiento, and after another burst of song each goes separately to worship at the shrine and to kiss the foot of the baby doll that represents the Christ Child. The devils are seen no more; they have been vanquished.

But an Indian bursts from the tent in the full regalia of warfare. The fringes of his buckskin jacket catch the rhythm of his dance and sway with him to a tune sawed from an old violin. Twice he makes a dash for the altar and is driven back by the shepherds. The third time he reaches it, kneels, and pays homage at the shrine. The devils, the stubborn Bartolo, and the savage Indian have all been tamed by the chubby Prince of Peace.

The crowd breaks up, not, however, to go home. Slowly each spectator, the peon direct from Mexico and his almost American cousin, goes to the altar to pay his respects to the Child. The night is growing colder, but there is no hurry. Every face shows that this is a sacred pilgrimage, although it takes but 24 paces. We linger to see José and his wife, their faces wreathed in smiles, distribute candy to the troupe. Then, in groups of twos and threes, the crowd filters away and we with it.

There is no exchange of money here, no bartering, no collection. Every Christmas, during the entire season, this band of Mexican performers goes about to present Los Pastores. Juan makes a nacimiento, an altar depicting the manger scene, and invites the players to come. It is an honor for them to be invited and he is honored that they have accepted. Each man provides his own costume, and the shepherds even seem to vie with one another to see who can produce the finest staff. One has a betinseled watermelon of papier-mâché topping his staff, and when he strikes it on the ground, the bells jingle and the watermelon falls partly open, disclosing the red heart. Another, of a more mechanical turn of mind, has fastened a dove on his crook. He can manipulate a string and the dove flaps its wings and seems to be on the point of flying away. The shepherds work on these crooks for months, in order to make them as magnificent as possible.

Year after year Los Pastores is presented in out of the way corners of San Antonio. Only the initiated can find it, but the process, once

learned, is simple. You go to the fruit stand of Antonio, who directs the players. He will be able to tell you where it will be given, or he can send you to a third party who is sure to know. And, after winding through the maze of streets in Little Mexico, you stumble upon the lighted yard and the crowd, and there is Los Pastores. Antonio has played the part of the hermit for 11 years, and he hopes that when he is too old to continue his son will be able to take the part. Antonio possesses to my knowledge the only copy of Los Pastores in San Antonio. It is written down in a dirty, worn ledger which he keeps on a shelf in his fruit stand. He teaches the other players their lines, and this is the way that it has been handed down for generations. It promises to continue, for the Mexicans never tire of seeing it again and again. There is some danger from kindly old ladies in conservation societies, who threaten to conserve something that has already been solidly entrenched in the hearts of the people. So far it has not been commercialized. It is a labor of love, one of the few left in the world.

SILVER IN THE WEST AND THE EAST1

By HERBERT M. BRATTER

Bureau of Foreign and Domestic Commerce, United States Department of Commerce

T

HE utilization of silver by mankind antedates civilization. The white metal has played a unique rôle in the lives of almost every people from the most primitive to the most cultured. Like the veins which characterize the metal as it is found in ore, the history of silver is inextricably intertwined with the history of great nations, assuming now greater and now lesser importance, but never ceasing to be present. It is no exaggeration to state that silver had a part of utmost significance in the exploration and settlement of Latin America, as, also, in the prosperity of the Spanish Empire. The deeds of brutality and amazing fortitude which that metal inspired are graven deep in the record of conquest. Merely the mention of such names as Cortés and Pizarro, the Inca Atahualpa, Potosi, de la Borda, or Pachuca calls up visions of wealth such as the world has rarely witnessed. Never had the world seen so much silver as was brought by the treasure fleets from Vera Cruz, Cartagena, Amatique, Nombre de Dios, and Porto Bello. The arrival of the white metal in Spain put new life into the economy of Europe, made possible the notable voyages of Magellan, Vespucci, Sebastian Cabot, and, indeed, financed in large part the colonization of Latin America.

One hears fabulous stories about silver in the Spanish colonies. There is nothing mythical about the richness of the mines of Potosi in Bolivia. However, the story of the Indian who discovered those mines by the accidental displacement of a shrub is probably just a "story." These mines were worked by Pizarro and his brother. interesting tale about silver in Costa Rica is told by Del Mar. So productive were the mines there that, on the occasion when the owner's first child was christened, the father laid a triple row of silver bricks from the palace to the church. Similar stories are to be heard in Mexico.

Among the several estimates available of the silver production of Latin America are those of Soet beer, Lexis, and Haring. To anyone examining the ancient records of the Spanish trade in treasure, it quickly becomes apparent that the various values as given in the records can be reconciled with only the greatest difficulty and some

1 Anyone interested in a more extensive and technical discussion of silver is referred to "The Silver Market," Trade Promotion Series No. 139, by Herbert M. Bratter, issued by the United States Bureau of Foreign and Domestic Commerce and sold by the Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C.