The gardeners had severest
instructions not to approach their nests. It was one of the minor
griefs of his life that, being so short-sighted, he could never
discover a bird's nest; no, not even as a child. Memories of boyhood
began to flit through his mind; they curled upwards in the scented
wreaths of his Havana. . . .
The golden oriole's flute-like whistle poured down from some leafy
summit in a sudden stream of melody. A hurried note, he thought;
expressed without much feeling--from duty rather than inclination; not
like the full-throated ease of other orioles in other lands he knew.
And so were the nightingales. They profited by his hospitality for a
day or two and then, uttering a perfunctory little tune, some
breathless and insincere word of thanks--just like any human
visitor--betook themselves elsewhere, northwards.
Northwards!
He glanced into the mazy foliage of the pine tree overhead, out of
which a shower of aromatic fragrance was descending to mingle with the
harsher perfume of the cypress.
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