“The more fool she,” said the sparrow, smartly, “to be captivated with such humdrum stuff. If you want to hear music, you must listen to the catbird, who has been to foreign countries, and the macaws, that are dressed so fine. They have introduced a new style of music, and it’s all the fashion; and your lackadaisical songs are now out of vogue, and none but the vulgar can bear them.” “Very well, if it be so,” said the robin quietly. “I know my songs are of a very humble kind, but they are still pleasing to me and mine; and I doubt not that my simple melodies give more true pleasure than the more fashionable of these foreign minstrels. One thing proves it, and that is this: when any one of the birds sings our native woodnotes wild, there is a silence all around, and every one has a look of delight. But when one of the fashionable musicians is singing, though the birds roll up their eyes and say, ‘exquisite!’ and ‘enchanting!’ and all that, they look all the time as if they were in the greatest distress. It seems to me very silly for people to praise a thing they dislike or do not understand, merely because it has come into fashion.” The Mysterious Artist. (_Continued._) It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville--this studio, which, during the day, was so animated and cheerful--was now silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young boy, whose sable hue harmonized with the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes sparkled like diamonds at midnight, leaned against an easel, immovable and still. He was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one, who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome mulatto. “Why do you come here, father?” said he, in a melancholy tone. “To keep you company, Sebastian.” “There is no need, father; I can watch alone.” “But what if the Zombi should come?” “I do not fear him,” replied the boy, with a pensive smile. “He may carry you away, my son, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery.” “Oh, how sad, how dreadful it is to be a slave!” exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly. “It is the will of God,” replied the negro, with an air of resignation. “God!” ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered--“God! I pray constantly to him, father, (and I hope he will one day listen to me,) that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go; and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good night, father, good night.” “Are you really not afraid of the Zombi, Sebastian?” “My father, that is a superstition of our country. Father Eugenio has assured me that God does not permit supernatural beings to appear on earth.”