"I think it was my father. But in our valley, everybody sings. On the roads, climbing the hills, caring for the animals, in the meetings; in fact, everywhere."
Catalina looked at my father furtively, and noticed that his face remained serene, almost tender, and so she hastened to profit by the occasion.
"Dear father," she said in a low voice, "Let her sing to us once in a while; will you? It's such a joy to hear her."
"Doesn't it tire you?"
"On the contrary, I think it does me good." And Catalina looked at her father appealingly.
"Let her sing," he said, "but leave it to the nightingales to sing alone.
There are so few of them."
"And won't you let the crows sing along with her too, if we care to?"
"There are too many crows," said my father, shaking his head.
"You are right, father, and your daughter Catalina is one of the number, for she's only a poor sick crow. But sometimes, father, you know the crows envy the nightingales."
The comparison made my father laugh heartily, and he let himself be persuaded by his elder daughter—that elder daughter whose voice was so like that of that dear wife of his, now forever silent.