Never from a feathered songster had I heard notes more sweet or harmonious. "It is the organista," said our guide. "Hurry on, Senores, hurry on, his note forebodes a coming storm; and, from the glimpses I have caught of the sky between the trees, I fear that we shall have one before we reach the village."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Truesdale, "this won't do at all. Here, signor organista, just set that thing back, will you, and we'll start again." "Why, oh why do I strive in vain to hate thee?" More notes shattered themselves on the stone walls about him singly, in bunches, in long, detached wails.