Fidencio and I dined early on the night of the Santos Reyes. Afterward, he took me along the street to a narrow alley-way between adobe walls, which led through a broken place into a tiny corral behind a house hung with red peppers. Under the legs of two meditative burros scurried dogs and chickens, a pig or so, and a swarm of little naked brown children. A wrinkled old Indian hag, smoking a cigarette made of an entire corn-husk, squatted upon a wooden box. Upon our appearance she arose, muttering toothless words of greeting, lifted the lid of the box, and produced an _olla_ full of new-made _aguardiente_. The distillery was in the kitchen. We paid her a silver peso, and circulated the jug among the three of us, with many polite wishes for health and prosperity. Over our heads the sunset sky yellowed and turned green, and a few large mountain stars blazed out. We heard laughter and guitars from the lower end of the town, and the uproarious shouts of the charcoal-burners finishing their holiday strong. The old lady consumed much more than her share.... "Oh, mother!" said Fidencio. "Where are they going to give the Pastores to-night?" "There are many Pastores," she answered with a leer. "_Carramba!_ what a year it is for Pastores! There is one in the schoolhouse, and another back of Don Pedro’s, and another in the _casa_ of Don Mario, and still another in the house of Perdita, who was married to Thomas Redondo, who was killed last year in the mines; may God have mercy on his soul!" "Which will be the best?" demanded Fidencio, kicking a goat which was trying to enter the kitchen. "_Quien sabe?_" she shrugged vaguely. "Were my old bones not so twisted I would go to Don Pedro’s. But I would be disappointed. There are no Pastores nowadays such as the ones we used to give when I was a girl."