The _caboclo_ slid down lightly along the trunk and saw two little bodies who were whining, staggering, dragging themselves along. They were two little pigeons. He bent over them, took them in his hands and began to examine them. They were ugly, still without wings, having only a thin down to cover the muscles of their soft, wrinkled bodies. The Indian turned them over this way and that in his shrivelled hands. He felt their fragile bones, and the little things struggled to fly away, moving the stumps of their wings; they stretched out their necks and whined. Gnashing his teeth, Tiburcio squeezed the fledglings and crushed them. Their tender bones cracked like bits of wood. The blood gushed forth and trickled, warm, through the tightened fingers of the man. Under the impulse of his fury he threw them to the ground; they flattened out, soft as rotten fruit. And the _caboclo_, growling to himself, trampled upon them. The parent-birds were cooing dolorously upon the thatched roof, flying hither and thither. Joanna, embracing her dead child, was still sobbing when Tiburcio entered the chamber. He stopped before the little bed, and looked down. Of a sudden the woman shook, arose with a start, seized her husband's arm, her eyes distended and her mouth wide open, her head bending over as if to hear voices, faraway sounds. "What is it, Joanna? What is the matter with you?" In terror she stammered reply. "The pigeons, dear husband. Don't you hear them?" It was their sad cooing that came from the roof of the house. "They are returning! Who knows? He is yet warm!" she cried. And in the heart of the woman arose a great hope. Tiburcio shrugged his shoulders. "Now it's their turn to mourn!" he answered. "They are sobbing, like us. It's a pair that remained behind because of the little ones. I dashed the pigeon-house to earth, I have killed the fledglings. See!" And he showed his bloody hands. "They flew away; they're on the house. Do you want to see?" He went out; she followed. They walked to the terrace. Tiburcio pointed to the ruined pigeon-house. Then he grasped the crushed bodies of the little birds. "Look!" Without breathing a word Joanna looked on. In her horror she had stopped weeping. She gazed upon her husband, whose burning eyes flashed fire. He threw the first little pigeon upon the roof bellowing, "'T is well!" He threw the second. "'T is well!" he repeated. The pigeons, frightened, flew off into the dark foliage. "'T is well," he said once more. Joanna, dumb, terrified, could not remove her eyes from her husband, who was now crying with sobs, his opened hands stained with blood. "Come, dear husband. It was the will of God. Our little son is in heaven!" And slowly she heartened him. They entered their cabin and, before the pallet of the dead child, the tears gushed from their eyes, while, on the roof above, the pigeons, who had returned, were cooing dolorously. AUNT ZEZE'S TEARS By Carmen Dolores