A moment ago there had not been a bird in sight (though, of course, the day was thridded through and through with the notes of those who were out of sight). But now, in the path before the arbour, all facing towards it, there must have been a score of birds—three or four sparrows, a pair of chaffinches, and then greenfinches, greenfinches, greenfinches. They were all facing expectantly towards the arbour, hopping towards it, hesitating, hopping on again, coming nearer, nearer.
Susanna, moving softly, lifted the dragon-handled cover from the
Chinese vase. It was full of birdseed.
"Ah, I see," said Anthony. "Pensioners. But I suppose you have reflected that to give alms to the able-bodied is to pauperise them."
"Hush," she whispered, scorning his economics. "Please make yourself invisible, and be quiet."
Then, taking a handful of seed, and leaning forward, softly, softly she began to intone—
"Tu-ite, tu-ite,
Uccelli, fringuelli,
Passeri, verdonelli,
Venite, venite!"
and so, da capo, over and over again.
And the birds, hesitating, gaining confidence, holding back, hopping on, came nearer, nearer. A few, the boldest, entered the arbour . . . they all entered . . . they hesitated, hung back, hopped on. Now they were at her feet; now three were in her lap; others were on the table. On the table, in her lap, at her feet, she scattered seed. Then she took a second handful, and softly, softly, to a sort of lullaby tune,
"Perlino, Perlino,
Perlino Piumino,
Where is Perlino?
Come, Perlino,"
she sang, her open hand extended.