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the terrace under the mango trees, and we, her yáyázinhas and yóyózinhos, know that the story hour has come. Theresa, daughter of the mud huts under the palm trees, ama in the sobrado of the foreign senhora, is a royal queen of story land. For her the beasts break silence and talk like humans. For her all the magic wonders of her tales stand forth as living truth. Her lithe body sways backwards and forwards to the rhythm of her words as she unfolds her tales to us. She is a picture to remember as she stands under the mango trees on our terrace. Her spotless white "camiza" is decorated with beautiful pillow lace, her own handiwork. Her skirt of stiffly starched cotton is red and purple in colour. A crimson flowered folded shawl hangs over her right shoul-