“Oh, the quantities of Bobolinks we saw in the meadows! If you could only have heard them sing—”
Ting-a-ling,
Ting-a-ling, ling.
Everybody stares at the apparition. He has stolen a march upon them—that little tawny Italian, down there in the street, gazing up at the merry group, with a weary sort of smile, as his slender fingers toy with the strings of his instrument, bringing forth many a plaintive air. Soon the music ceases, and the tattered hat is passed around. But he may not go yet; his audience is clamoring for a song. “An Italian song,” cries Marie. And so, to the accompaniment of his guitar, he sings in his native tongue a little ballad which runs something after this fashion:
Wandering, wandering all the world over,
Hither and thither, and to and fro,
Free as the wind—the rollicking rover,
Lightly humming and thrumming I go.
Free as the wind to linger and tarry,
Free as the wind to hasten afar,