It was
one of my best-loved birds, but I had never had one in my hand, dead
or alive, before, and now its wonderful unimagined loveliness, its
graceful form, and the exquisitely pure flower-like yellow hue
affected me with a delight so keen that I could hardly keep from
tears.
After gloating a few moments over it, touching it with my finger-tips
and opening the little black and gold wings, I looked up pleadingly
and begged him to let me keep it. He smiled and shook his head: he
would not waste his breath talking; all his energy was to be spent in
hurling pebbles at other lovely little birds.
"Oh, senor, will you not give it to me?" I pleaded still; and then,
with sudden hope, "Are you going to sell it?"
He laughed, and taking it from my hand put it back in his waistcoat
pocket; then, with a pleasant smile and a nod to say that the
interview was now over, he went on his way.
Standing on the spot where he left me, and still bitterly regretting
that I had failed to get the bird, I watched him until he disappeared
from sight in the distance, walking towards the suburb of Palermo; and
a mystery he remains to this day, the one and only Argentine
gentleman, a citizen of the Athens of South America, amusing himself
by killing little birds with pebbles.
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