A Daughter of the Misti

Not the elder daughter, whom all the world knows where she sits, white upon her little green patch against the hopeless desert, looking up with now and then a shiver at the white-headed giant, her father. No, the one I mean now is something like three hundred and fifty years younger than the Misti's first born and favorite, and not white at all, nor over-dignified, nor even given to much thought as to when _taita_[16] shall shrug again those mighty shoulders and rattle the walls about her ears. In fact, to look at the two-the fat, brown, clumsy _cholo_ girl and the shining city-I dare say you would never take Tránsita and Arequipa[17] for sisters at all. But as both are daughters of the Misti, I see no other way out of it.

What! You don't know either of them? Hm! Of course it could hardly be expected that you should be acquainted with Tránsita, for she lives on a back street on the other side of the river and comes very seldom to the plaza. And probably you could not talk with her, anyhow, since her speech is only Spanish and Quichua. But not to know Arequipa-why that is to count out the prettiest city in Peru, and one of the oldest in America. And if you do not know the daughter you have missed the father, too, which is an even greater pity-for he is one of the handsomest giants on earth, though a baby in his own family. Well, well-the sooner I give you an introduction the better, then.