"Mamma, when Segundo says that the pines sing, they sing, mamma, there is not a doubt of it."
"But you don't know," said Nieves, bestowing on the poet a smile in which there was more sugar than salt—"that Segundo writes poetry, and that people who write poetry are permitted to—to invent—a little?"
"No, Señora," cried Segundo. "Do not teach your child what is not true. Do not deceive her. In society it often happens that we utter with the lips sentiments that are far from the heart, but in poetry we lay bare the feelings of the inmost soul, feelings which in the world we are obliged to hide in our own breasts, through respect—or through prudence. Believe me."
"Say, mamma, are we going there to-day?"
"Where?"
"To the pine grove."
"If you are very anxious to go. What an obstinate child! But indeed I too am curious to hear this orchestra."
Only Nieves, Victorina, Carmen, Segundo, and Tropiezo took part in the expedition. The elders remained behind smoking and looking on at the important operation of covering and closing some of the vats which contained the must, now fermented. As Mendez saw the party about to start, he called out in a tone of paternal warning:
"Take care with the descent. The pine needles in this hot weather are as slippery as if they had been rubbed with soap. The ladies must be helped down. You, Victorina, don't be crazy; don't go rushing about there."
The famous pine grove was distant some quarter of a league, but they spent fully three-quarters of an hour in making the ascent, along a path as steep, narrow, and rugged as the ascent to heaven is said to be, and which long before reaching the wood was carpeted with the polished, smooth, dry pine needles, which, if they rendered the descent more easy than was agreeable, compensated for it by making the ascent extremely difficult, causing the foot to slip, and fatiguing the ankles and the knees. Nieves stopped from time to time to take breath, and was at last fain to avail herself of the support of the plump arm of Carmen Agonde.