One of the most significant customs which tattle upon the conquistador is the manner in which Puerto Rican oxen are yoked. In almost every other country of the world where oxen have ever slaved as beasts of burden their yokes have been securely rested upon their necks just forward of the hump. But not so in Puerto Rico, for even today when men should know better, the Puerto Rican follows the custom set by the conquistadors and yokes his oxen by the horns. Evidently, the original Spaniards knew no other way. A bit of wood across the end of the tongue of the cart or plow is securely lashed to the horns and every bit of pulled weight falls directly upon the neck instead of the shoulders. In this way only half the amount of work can be done, and Mr. Ox is sure to go to bed with a neckache.
Many words I wasted in attempts to uproot this institution, and undo some of the work of the Spaniards, but I was always met by the statement that it was known to be an evil custom, but that, unanswerably, their fathers had done it in that manner.
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When the conquistador established a custom, the country usually adhered to it. The dress of the Puerto
Rican woman of today is identical with those worn in Spain at the time Columbus sailed home to be called a liar. This native dress is almost the same wherever the conquistador unsheathed his sword. Natives of the South Seas, when they are not wearing a Mother Hubbard in sweaty virtue, wear the same regalia as the Puerto Rican. The costume consists of a short gauze shirtwaist with abbreviated balloon sleeves, pulled down to a high waist over a colorful bodice, and set off by a voluminous skirt which is simply a few yards of cloth draped about the hips. The comb at the back of the brunette head and the gaily colored shawl are woeful in their absence. Incidentally, I have never seen this costume outside of a cabaret which boasted a chorus.
About the time I had come to a conclusion that every bump on every hill in Puerto Rico was a mine dump and that every depression was a placer digging of the 1600s, my friends in the North sent support to me in the form of Thomas Finley McBride of the Butte School of Mines in Montana, who carried a little gold medal which proclaimed him as the most promising graduate of the previous year.
The best thing Mac found that he didn’t like was the pernicious manana habit of the natives. During the first week of his advent he determined that one of the reasons he seemed to progress slowly was to be found in his lack of Spanish. Accordingly he set himself to the task of mastering a new language, and it was the short sum of three months before he could finally make himself understood. I deem this record time for the absorption of a new tongue.
Mac and I searched high and low, out and beyond, for ledges of the precious ore, but search though we did, and sweat and curse in Spanish, we finally simmered our prospects down to four.
All of these four diggings were of recent date, but the engineers who had made them all seem to have been lacking in mineralogical savvy, and we based our hopes on the supposed incompetence of our predecessors.
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