"What kind of day has it been?" asked the widower.
"Unhealthy," answered one.
"And the sky?"
"Patched; I think the rain is not far off. There was fog this morning, and 'fog is the rain's sponsor and the sun's neighbor.'"
"The wind will soon sweep the cobwebs from the sky," said a third, "for it blows from sunset side. The rain is shyer than sixpences."
"No matter," answered the first, "last year it did not rain till All Saints; and a better year, or another of the same piece, hasn't been seen since the creation. Laborers, farmers, and tenants all got tired of gathering, and had more than enough—the barley, in particular, grew so thick that you couldn't set a spade between the blades."
"The month of January is the key of the year. If the sky does not open in January, there will be no harvest."
"Hola! Uncle Bartolo!" all exclaimed, as a small, vigorous old man entered the apartment. "Where do you hail from? where have you been ever since we missed you from here?"
Uncle Bartolo, after offering to the mourner the usual condolences, seated himself, and, turning toward his interrogators, replied:
"Where do I come from? The district of Doñana, without varying from the most direct line. Since the French war ended, and I took the road, I have been water-carrier[163] to the You Sirs.[164] They have them there in Doñana of all complexions—legitimate, grafted, cross-breed, and supposititious, even English. Caballeros! Deliver us; but those Swiss of the French are the ones! Stout fellows; very white; very ruddy; very fair-haired, and very puffy. But as to spirit, they have no more than they drink; and grace, they have not any. They carry their arms like the sleeves of a capote, and set their feet down like pestles. Whenever I saw those feet that resembled jabeques,[165] I used to say to myself,