Good-Night
I
Scarlet fuchsias on a swaying branch freckled the 'dobe wall behind Loretta's perch. The par- rot, her claws wide apart, her brilliant rudder tilting to balance her gray body, industriously snapped at the blossoms. One secured at last, she turned slowly about and, with infinite care, let it drop upon the open pages of Padre Alonzo's book.
The padre brushed the flower away and glanced up.
“Buenos dias, señor!” clacked Loretta; “buenos dias! baenos dias! buenos dias!“
