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I said to myself, "... no one could 'sentir un oranger' in this room; one could only smell Delsarte's bad tobacco." He begged me to sing something else. "Will you accompany Gounod's 'Medje' for me?" I asked him. "No," he replied. "I will listen; you must accompany yourself. There are certain songs that cannot be accompanied by any one but the singer. This is one of them!
Presently, though, I hummed over the old song: "Ken ye the rhyme to porringer? Ken ye the rhyme to porringer? King James the Seventh had ae daughter, And he gave her to an Oranger. "And the Oranger filched his crown," said I, "and drove King James God bless him! out of his kingdom.
Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il etait nuit deja," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano to accompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air leger apportait jusqu'a nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeat that!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur de l'oranger."
Yet such was my felicity that I went to my nocturnal labors singing. Yes, it rang in my ears, somehow, that silly old Scotch song, and under my breath I hummed odd snatches of it as I went about the night's business. Sang I: "Ken ye the rhyme to porringer? Ken ye the rhyme to porringer? King James the Seventh had ae daughter, And he gave her to an Oranger. "Ken ye how he requited him?
All which was mightily applauded; and upon this I rose, and said, "It was a pleasant thing for me to have to report to his majesty's government the loyalty of the inhabitants of our town, and the unanimity of the volunteering spirit among them and to testify," said I, "to all the world, how much we are sensible of the blessings of the true liberty we enjoy, I would suggest that the matter of the volunteering be left entirely to Mr Pipe and Mr Dinton, with a few other respectable gentlemen, as a committee, to carry the same into effect;" and with that I looked, as it were, round the church, and then said, "There's Mr Oranger, a better couldna be joined with them."
"You look like me, only smaller and oranger!" "Yeah," said Tweaty. "I guess I do. But I'm not sure this is going to work on the Forest Monster. If you were to change him into another sentient animal, he'd just go back and do it all over again. You must turn him into something inanimate. But please, this is very uncomfortable.
That February morning was cloudless, and Rome on her seven hills was flooded in sunshine. The birds were singing in the ilex wood as Olive passed through, and Camille was singing too in his atelier: "'Derrière chez mon père Vive la rose. Il y a un oranger Vive ci, vive l
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