THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



295 



Photograph by Herbert Corey 



a busy scene on the peaza de la constltucpon at lpivia, the spanish 



' town in prance 



The open doors of the shops afford 

 glimpses that tantalize the stroller. Shop- 

 keeping in the bishopric of Urgel seems 

 to run largely to the sale of pack-sad- 

 dles, coils of rope, and firearms, and the 

 fragrant scent of leather comes to the 

 nostrils. It was just opposite the great 

 pots built in a stone oven under the ar- 

 cade, from which bean soup is served to 

 travelers on market and feast days, that 

 I encountered the temptation. 



THE SHOP OP SKIN PLASKS 



There is a shop there, a cavernous, 

 dark, windy shop. The floor is clear of 

 the riffraff of rope and leather that one 

 sees in other business houses. In the 

 farthest corner a single candle is screened 

 against the draft from the open door, and 

 its tiny flame casts long, moving shadows 

 of objects that swing lightly from the 

 heavy rafters. There was a mysterious 

 similitude of life about these things. 

 They were faintly recognizable. It was 

 as though many of the common domestic 



animals had reversed their normal habit 

 and had attached themselves flylike to 

 the half-seen ceiling. 



Then came enlightenment. These were 

 wine sacks made of pig and goat skins, 

 which by the art of their maker had pre- 

 served a horrible likeness to their origi- 

 nal inhabitants. There was one small 

 wine sack there — it had been the earthly 

 integument of a tiny pig — that I coveted 

 with all my heart. It swung in the breeze 

 from the open door, the half light con- 

 cealing the imperfections of its present 

 and emphasizing the plump coquetry of 

 its original state. Twice I walked past 

 the door and twice I was redeemed from 

 folly. A dusty wanderer whose solvency 

 was only vouched for by the possession 

 of a camera must have added to his 

 handicap by the surreptitious fondling of 

 a wine sack that uncannily resembled a 

 little pig. 



Many old costumes have disappeared 

 from the Pyrenees. The men rarely wear 

 sabots, and then only when they are at 



