Energy books

Warm kisses play on mother's lips,
On her fond, tender breast awaking;
When round her neck the soft arm slips,
And bright eyes smile, all love partaking.

Sweet is death for one's native land,
Where all is dear the sunbeams bless;
Dead is the breeze that sweeps the strand,
Without a mother, home, or love's caress.

The song ceased, the voice died away, the harp became silent, and they
still listened; no one applauded. The young women felt their eyes
fill with tears, and Ibarra seemed to be unpleasantly affected. The
youthful pilot stared motionless into the distance.
Suddenly a thundering roar was heard, such that the women screamed and
covered their ears; it was the ex-theological student blowing with all
the strength of his lungs on the tambuli, or carabao horn. Laughter
and cheerfulness returned while tear-dimmed eyes brightened. "Are
you trying to deafen us, you heretic?" cried Aunt Isabel.
"Madam," replied the offender gravely, "I once heard of a poor
trumpeter on the banks of the Rhine who, by playing on his trumpet,
won in marriage a rich and noble maiden.


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