"This is the eve of Christmas,
No sleep from now till morn;
The Virgin is in travail,
At twelve will the child be born!"
Behind her stumped a crippled beggar, who croaked in a voice rough with frost and aguar-diente his deep disillusion and distrust of the great:
"This is the eve of Christmas,
But what is that to me?
We are ruled by thieves and robbers,
As it was and will always be."
Next comes a shouting band of the youth of Spain, strapping boys with bushy locks, crisp and black almost to blueness, and gay young girls with flexible forms and dark Arab eyes that shine with a phosphorescent light in the shadows. They troop on with clacking castanets. The challenge of the mozos ring out on the frosty air,
"This is the eve of Christmas,
Let us drink, and love our fill!"
And the saucy antiphon of girlish voices responds,
"A man may be bearded and gray,
But a woman can fool him still!"
The Christmas and New Year's holidays continue for a fortnight, ending with the Epiphany. On the eve of the Day of the Kings a curious farce is performed by bands of the lowest
