guess, they were sure to say France, Andalusia, or Spain, but "an American never!"
The portrait of Gregoria Queros represents one of these functionaries, and also the pure type of an Indian that she is. One might easily imagine her to be the mother of a hero, not only by her face, but also by her conversation.
On entering her house, she began by asking the usual question, and guessing I was from France. But when told I was an American, she turned her head doubtfully to one side, as if in reflection. The silence was broken by my asking her:
"What do you think of the Americans!" and the somewhat startling reply came:
"Los Americanos son como los Indios barbaros" ("The Americans are the same as wild Indians").
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
GREGORIA QUIROS.
"Because," she answered," in 1847, when I was sixteen years old, they came down here and fought terrible battles all over this country. Just think of Chapultepec, Molino del Rey, and Churubusco; ah! what sad days those were to us!"
"Well," I added (endeavoring to recall her from reflections so painful), "what other objections have you to them?"
"They are never satisfied. They always want more land and more money. This is what they live for."
During this interesting colloquy she preserved a politely respectful demeanor, and felt evidently pained to
