“Here’s a fine gentleman come to town;
His shoes are red and his plume is brown.”
“Ugh!” interpolated Tia Marta, who had burned her finger. Grandfather’s eyes twinkled.
“I’m red as a rose for you;
I live at your command;
My spirit glows for you.
Then why withdraw your hand?”
“Don’t forget the one about the charcoal,” prompted Rafael.
“I may be black when I come,
But only make me at home,
And you shall find me a merry fellow,
Dancing in stockings red and yellow.”
“We stack up pine cones for fuel in our Galician cellars,” observed Uncle Manuel. “It is only the stupidest peasants who cut down our splendid chestnuts for firewood, burning their best food.”
“Green, green, green it sang on the hill;
Dark and silent it crossed the sill;
Yellow to-night as a daffodil
And red as a rose it is singing still.”
“But there is no end to his wisdom!” gasped the admiring Hilario. “Only two more,” smiled Grandfather.
“More than a hundred beautiful ladies
I saw for an instant dancing by;
All their faces were red as roses,
But in an instant I saw them die.”