Children of the Days by Eduardo Galeano

changed his name and his country. He became Guillén Lombardo, a Spaniard, captain of the Spanish Armada.
    His third birth occurred when he became a hero of Mexico’s long struggle for independence. In the year 1659, sentenced to die at the stake, he hanged himself rather than face the dishonor of being burned alive.
    He was resuscitated in the twentieth century. In his fourth life he called himself Diego de la Vega and he wore a mask. He was Zorro, sword-fighting champion of the downtrodden, who left his mark with a “Z.”
    Douglas Fairbanks, Tyrone Power, Alain Delon and Antonio Banderas all wielded his sword in Hollywood.

November 19
T HE M OSS AND THE S TONE
    At dawn on this day in 1915, Joe Hill faced a firing squad in Salt Lake City.
    This foreign agitator, who had changed his name twice and his job and address a thousand times, had written the songs sung by striking workers all over the United States.
    On his last night, he asked his comrades not to waste time crying for him:
    Â 
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  My will is easy to decide ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  For there is nothing to divide .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  My kin don’t need to fuss and moan ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Moss does not cling to a rolling stone .

November 20
T HINGS C HILDREN S AY
    Today is Children’s Day.
    I go for a stroll and bump into a girl who is two or maybe a little older, that age when we’re all pagans.
    The girl is skipping along, greeting all the greenery she sees: “Hello, grass!” “Good morning, grass!”
    Then she stops to listen to the birds singing in the tops of the trees. And she applauds.
    At noon on this day, a boy of about eight, maybe nine, brings a present to my house.
    It’s a folder filled with drawings.
    The present comes from the students at a school in the Montevideo neighborhood of Cerrito de la Victoria. The young artist hands it to me with an explanation: “These drawings are us.”

November 21
T HE S ADDEST M ATCH IN H ISTORY
    In 1973 Chile was a country imprisoned by military dictatorship. The National Stadium had been turned into a concentration camp and torture chamber.
    The Chilean national team was to play a decisive World Cup qualifying match against the Soviet Union.
    Pinochet’s dictatorship decided that the match had to be played in the National Stadium, no matter what.
    The prisoners were hurriedly transferred and soccer’s top brass inspected the field—the turf was impeccable—and gave their blessing.
    The Soviet team refused to play along.
    Eighteen thousand fans bought tickets and cheered the goal that Francisco Valdés put in the empty net.
    The Chilean team played against no one.

November 22
I NTERNATIONAL M USIC D AY
    As those with long memories tell it, in other times the sun was the lord of music, until the wind stole music away.
    Ever since, birds console the sun with concerts at the beginning and end of the day.
    But now these winged singers cannot compete with the screech and roar of the motors that rule big cities, and little or no birdsong can be heard. In vain they burst their breasts trying, and the effort ruins their trills.
    Females no longer recognize their mates. The males, virtuoso tenors, irresistible baritones, do their best, but in the urban racket no one can tell who is whom, and the females end up accepting the embrace of unfamiliar wings.

November 24
G RANDMA
    In 1974 her bones turned up in the rocky hills of Ethiopia.
    Her discoverers called her Lucy.
    Thanks to advanced technology, they were able to calculate her age at about three million, one hundred and seventy-five thousand years, give or take a day or two. And also her height: she was rather short, a little over three feet