"Haven't you seen the ice-cream makers before?" said the señora. "No, I think you cannot remember last summer, can you? The gipsies go up to the Sierras in the very early morning, and get donkey-loads of snow, and the people make ice-cream in those pails with the snow in it. They sit right at their doors on the sidewalk and make the fresh cream, and any one can buy a glass of it." "Do let us have some," cried the children, and their indulgent mother ordered the horses stopped while they ate some of the delicious fresh cream. As the carriage rolled on down the steep street, so narrow that as Manuel said "one can hardly pass another after a full dinner," the swineherd was just coming out for the day, and Juanita cried: "Oh, _madre_! See that man with the pipe in his mouth; what queer music he plays! What is he?" "He is the swineherd, _niña_. See, he comes from his alley, staff in hand," the señora said. "Watch him blow his pipe without turning his head, and the pigs come after him, as if he had charmed them. Little and big, dark and light, fat and scrawny, there they come following him to pasture. Every alley we pass adds some curly tail to the procession. Now he is ready to turn out of the town into that grove, and see what an army of piggies follows him! He never looks for any of them, but they hear the music of his pipe and start because they learned long ago that it leads them to good pastures." "I think they are too funny for anything," said the little girl. "Does he bring them back at night?" "Yes, and every little piggy knows his own alley, and goes right home with a little frisk of his curly tail to say 'good night,'" said her mother, smiling. "See those oxen; are they not splendid fellows? I love to see them draw their loads so easily. Beautiful creamy creatures, with their dark points and their great, soft eyes." "What is that wooden thing over their heads?" asked Juanita. "That is the yoke to couple them together. They are the gentlest animals in the world, these great, hornèd beasts, and the driver walks in front of them with a stick over his shoulder, which he seldom thinks of using." "Oh, what a cunning little donkey!" cried the little girl, as they passed a tiny donkey laden with panniers filled with flowers, fruit, vegetables, bread, fowls, and even a water-jar. "How prettily he is clipped, all in a pattern." "Mamma," said Fernando, "some of the donkeys that the gipsies have clipped have mottoes and pictures on them. I know a boy whose donkey has '_Viva mi Amo_'[14] on his side. I don't like that, for if the donkey doesn't love his master, it is telling a story." His mother laughed. "We will hope he has a good little master, and then the donkey will care for him and not be telling a falsehood with his fur.