ee o'clock, he was at Master Gyles's
private singing-room at the old cathedral school, learning to read music
at first sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and fourth parts
of queer intermingled fugues or wonderfully constructed canons.

At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted glutton with all the
learning that the old precentor poured into it; but by and by he found
it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to follow up the prickings
in the paper with his voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and
fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as to carry a song alone.
But still he sang best his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge
of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory of the lark, songs that
were impossible to write. And those were the songs that the precentor
was at the greatest pains to have him sing in perfect tones, making him
open his mouth like a little round and let the music float out
of itself.

Like the master-player, nothing short of perfection pleased old
Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick's voice often wavered with sheer weariness as
he ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-las while his teacher
beat the time in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim automaton.

The old man, too, was chary of his praise, though Nick tried hard to
please him, and it was only by little things he told his satisfaction.
He touzed the ears of the other boys, and sometimes smartly thumped
their crowns; but with Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between his
thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his shoulder when the hard day's
work was done, saying, "_Satis cantorum_--it is enough. Now be off to
thy nest, sir; and do not forget to wash thy throat with good cold water
every day."

* * * * *

All this time the busy sand kept running in the glass. July was gone,
and August at its heels. The hot breath of the summer had cooled, and
the sun no longer burned the face when it came in through the windows.
Nick often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed
lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that grow in the
pale green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the queer, rancid odor of
the crimson bloom crushed beneath the feet of the farmers' boys who cut
the butter-yellow mustard from among the bearded grain.

"Heigh-ho and alackaday!" thought Nick. "It is better in the country
than in town!" For there was no smell in al