“It is good to be among trees again,” admitted Tia Marta, “though the pine forests of Galicia are not beautiful like the orange-groves of Andalusia.” “A bad year to all the grumblers in the world!” exclaimed Hilario in loyal indignation. “No heaven was ever invented That pleased the discontented,” muttered Bastiano. “What have you in Andalusia that shines in the sun like that white poplar yonder?” demanded Don Manuel. Grandfather, sitting on the edge of a rock with Pilarica nestled against him, made a gesture of reverence. “The white poplar is the first tree that God created,” he said. “It is hoary, you see, with age. “Are there good trees and bad trees?” asked Pilarica. “Yes,” replied Grandfather. “The trees that are green all the year round enjoy that favor in return for having given shade to the Holy Family on the journey to Egypt, but the willow, on which Judas hanged himself, is a tree to be shunned. Yet the birds love the willow, for it gives them food and shelter. Back in Estremadura, where, you remember, we saw scarcely a shrub, no birds can nest, and they say that even the wee lark, if it would visit that province, must carry its provisions on its back.” “Are all the birds good?” asked Pilarica again. “Almost all,” replied Grandfather. “‘The little birds among the reeds, God’s trumpeters are they, For they hail the Sun with music And wish him happy day.’ But the swallows are best of all, because they used to build under the eaves of Joseph’s home at Nazareth and watch the face of the Christ Child at his play.” “There was once a bird,” struck in Pedrillo, “a very saucy little bird, who ordered a fine new suit of his tailor, hatter and shoemaker, and then, quite the dandy, flew away to the palace garden. Here he alighted on a twig just outside the King’s window and had the impudence to sing: “‘In my new spring suit (aha the spring!) I’m a prettier fellow Than his Majesty there (oho the king!) For all his purple and yellow.’ The king, very angry, had the bird caught and broiled and, to make sure of him, ate him himself, but the little rebel raised such a riot in the royal stomach that the king was glad enough to throw him up again. The bird came out in forlorn plight, stripped of all his new feathers, but he went hopping about the garden, begging a plume from every bird he met, so that he was soon even gayer and saucier than before. But when the king tried to catch him again, he flew so fast he drank the winds and did not stop till he was above the nose of the moon.” “Bah!” said Tia Marta. “Stuff and nonsense” “Rubbish!” chimed in Bastiano. “Pedrillo must have been taught to lie by a serpent descended from the snake of Eden.”