At last he decided to go into town. I was afraid of being alone. Before I go alone for the rest of the afternoon, preferred the slow and monotonous conversation simple people, a conversation refreshing, as he said, that forced him to reflect and let his thoughts in sweet calm animal.

Around San Jose saw the Spanish flag floating on the roof of the hall, and came to his ears Patch blows tambourine, the pleasant chirping of the flute and the rattle of castañolas.

The dance was in front of the church. Young people formed groups, standing near the musicians, who occupied low saddles. The drummer, with his round instrument lying on one knee, hit a patch cadence, while his companion blew a long wooden flute, adorned with carvings of primitive rudeness made knife. The Chaplain ringing the castañolas, huge as the shells on the beach grabbed the guy winds.

The atlotas, clutching the waist or shoulders supported each other, looked virtuous hostility to the waiters, who strutted in the center of the square, his hands stuffed in his belt, the wide beaver pushed back to expose the curls on his forehead, neck, wrapped in embroidered cloth tape or tie, and spotless white sandals almost hidden by the mouth of corduroy trousers shaped elephant foot.