So after that, I swam rarely. The ride in from Guayabal was long and tiring. And once or twice a week, I stayed at home, while Bill went forth in the motor, to golf and swim, coming back in time for dinner. I was never bored. There were letters from Father to answer: a difficult diplomatic task; letters too, from the Goodriches, who were dashing about the Continent at a breath-taking speed. Peter had half an album filled with postcards before his parents had been on the other side two weeks! And of course I had to take innumerable snapshots with the little kodak Bill bought me in Havana, in order to pictorially report Peter's progress. Uncle John wrote often, sometimes to Bill, sometimes to me, and now and then to us both jointly. The advent of the mail was a real joy. No one seemed to forget us, everyone demanded an immediate reply. And it was difficult not to put off letter writing until the morrow. For I had not been in Cuba more than twenty-eight hours before the "manana philosophy" had laid hold of me. In my secret drawer a little pile of poems grew. I was amazed at the way the songs came to me, sang in my brain and would not be still until I had put them on paper. In my heart, I harbor a timid ambition of one day showing them to Uncle John. If he would publish them, privately, I could send a copy to Richard Warren. After all--they were his: his and Cuba's and mine own. Between tea and dinner, the days when Bill was not at home, I would walk. Sometimes with little Peter, or with Annunciata, sometimes alone, save for little Wiggles. Little by little I grew to know the natives by name and station: went, even into their one-roomed houses, dark and smoky, thatched with palm leaves, and odorous with charcoal stoves. One amusing acquaintance I made was that of old Manuel, who lived not for from our gates. Annunciata took me there, affirming that of all the Guayablan sights, this was one I must not miss. Bill was horrified to hear of my call at Manuel's pitifully poor dwelling. But he went there himself later, to see if in any way, he could alleviate the very obvious poverty and probable suffering of the ancient creature. For the tradition had it that Manuel was one hundred and twenty years old. Certain it was that he remembered Havana when it was little more than a cow-pasture. Age had shrunken him to the stature of a child, but his eye were still bright, his features cleancut, his grey hair and beard still curling and vigorous. The village people took a certain pride in their ancient, and he did not lack for visitors. Propped up on a make-shift bed, wrapped in rags, from which his bare thin legs protruded, he received me with great dignity. And we talked for fully half an hour: that is to say, Annunciata talked, and Manuel talked, and now and then the former would translate a phrase or two into her scanty English. It was from Bill, however, that I heard most of the old man's story.