was -smalleyre -on-joos-like-a -bow-boot-now -she-ees-biggerr-on-rrraon-like-an-O."
Then a big gulp of air, and again:
"Oh-look -et -de -moon -she -ees -shinin -up -theyre, etc."
An hour of this, and he skipped from the lyric to the patriotic, and then it was:
"I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton,
I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow,
I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg,
Off-rrid-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo!"
By this time the Maestro was ready to go to bed, and long in the torpor of the tropic night there came to him, above the hum of the mosquitoes fighting at the net, the soft, wailing croon of Isidro, back at his "Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies."
These were days of ease and beauty to the Maestro, and he enjoyed them the more when a new problem came to give action to his resourceful brain.
The thing was: For three days there had not been one funeral in Balangilang.
In other climes, in other towns, this might have been a source of congratulation, perhaps, but not in Balangilang. There were rumours of cholera in the towns to the north, and the Maestro, as President of the
