One afternoon, for example, the talk was of Mona. The natives, made idle by irritability from the sweltering heat, were contemplating what kind of girl Mona actually was. 

"A puta!" yelled the brown man through his yellowing teeth, a string of grass between them. Just because Mona rejected his advances, he's now calling her a bitch.

"This chica is loco!" shouted the fat lady, fanning herself with a banana tree leaf.  This woman, daring to call Mona a crazy chick, repeated the assumption of a village girl who's more than half her age.

"Bobo! Idiota!" cried the girl's mother, accepting the foolishness of her daughter. 

"Leche!" shouted the girl's father, sending his daughter to eternal damnation.

"Por  favor!" pleaded an old lady napping nearby. "Te pueden escuchar!" Her fear of somebody hearing them swearing prompted Mona's father to apologize to the house matriarch.

But that was just her excuse. In fact, she's telling him to shut up, not because of the bad words he uttered, but because she's trying to sleep in her silla — a rocking chair made from rattan that had been her favorite (or only comfort). Nevertheless,  he's sorry for what he had said and for what had transpired, wishing it never did. 
 
What actually took place was still a mystery. All they knew for certain was that *IT* had happened. Reports gathered from townsfolk ranged from a kiss being exchanged to a salacious act being committed. Either way, it involved Stupid Samuel, who seemed to be plagued by scandals. 

"INDECENTE!" the Village Voice headline screamed. 

"IMMORAL!" was shouted from the streets by eager pages, obliterating the necessity of a barrio newsletter, a periodico. 

Someone was shaking his head and mourned: "You know... these kids... they are not... so inocente  anymore... as we want them to be... Ay caray! What has the world come to?"