A robin was one summer evening sitting upon a tree and singing its cheerful song right merrily. A critical sparrow was near by, and when the robin had done, he exclaimed, “Bah! what a miserable song! Why, it really seemed as if it would split my ears. How can you, Mister Robin, pretend to sing, when there are those around who understand music so much better?”
“Why, dear little sparrow,” said the robin, “I only sing simple songs, such as nature has taught me; and here is my pretty mate at my side, and she says my song gives her pleasure.”
“The more fool she,” said the sparrow, smartly, “to be captivated with such humdrum stuff. If you want to hear music, you must listen to the catbird, who has been to foreign countries, and the macaws, that are dressed so fine. They have introduced a new style of music, and it’s all the fashion; and your lackadaisical songs are now out of vogue, and none but the vulgar can bear them.”
“Very well, if it be so,” said the robin quietly. “I know my songs are of a very humble kind, but they are still pleasing to me and mine; and I doubt not that my simple melodies give more true pleasure than the more fashionable of these foreign minstrels. One thing proves it, and that is this: when any one of the birds sings our native woodnotes wild, there is a silence all around, and every one has a look of delight. But when one of the fashionable musicians is singing, though the birds roll up their eyes and say, ‘exquisite!’ and ‘enchanting!’ and all that, they look all the time as if they were in the greatest distress. It seems to me very silly for people to praise a thing they dislike or do not understand, merely because it has come into fashion.”
The Mysterious Artist.
(Continued.)
It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville—this studio, which, during the day, was so animated and cheerful—was now silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young boy, whose sable hue harmonized with the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes sparkled like diamonds at midnight, leaned against an easel, immovable and still. He was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one, who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome mulatto.
“Why do you come here, father?” said he, in a melancholy tone.
“To keep you company, Sebastian.”
“There is no need, father; I can watch alone.”