“And what, pray, do you know about it?” snapped Tia Marta, turning most inconsistently against her fellow-critic, “you who are standing off there solitary as asparagus or as that ill-tempered old rat who made himself a hermitage in a cheese,--You who couldn’t tell a story half as good, no, not for a pancake full of gold-pieces!” “What a scolding deluge is this! It froths and fizzes like cider. It’s a pity there are not stoppers enough for all the bottles in the world,” retorted Bastiano. “Come, come!” interposed Grandfather. “Stabs heal, but sharp words never. There is a cool breeze springing up. Thank God for his angel, the wind! “‘Without wings to church it flies, Without a mouth it whistles, And without hands it turns the leaves Of the Gospels and Epistles.’” The little fire on the rock flared up in the gust, and the children, who, having borrowed all the hats in the company, had ranged them in a row and were trying to outdo each other in jumping over every hat in the line and back again without a pause, came panting up to watch the flame. “Sing us the fire songs, please, Grandfather,” coaxed Pilarica. She brought the old man his guitar and as the withered fingers moved over the strings, even Don Manuel drew near to listen. “Here’s a fine gentleman come to town; His shoes are red and his plume is brown.” “Ugh!” interpolated Tia Marta, who had burned her finger. Grandfather’s eyes twinkled. “I’m red as a rose for you; I live at your command; My spirit glows for you. Then why withdraw your hand?” “Don’t forget the one about the charcoal,” prompted Rafael. “I may be black when I come, But only make me at home, And you shall find me a merry fellow, Dancing in stockings red and yellow.” “We stack up pine cones for fuel in our Galician cellars,” observed Uncle Manuel. “It is only the stupidest peasants who cut down our splendid chestnuts for firewood, burning their best food.” “Green, green, green it sang on the hill; Dark and silent it crossed the sill; Yellow to-night as a daffodil And red as a rose it is singing still.” “But there is no end to his wisdom!” gasped the admiring Hilario. “Only two more,” smiled Grandfather. “More than a hundred beautiful ladies I saw for an instant dancing by; All their faces were red as roses, But in an instant I saw them die.” “Those are the sparks,” interpreted Pilarica. “Before the mother is born, we meet The son out walking on the street. Tall as a pine, his weight indeed Is less than that of a mustard seed.” “That’s the smoke,” expounded Rafael.