He inhaled the air, tasting it critically as a connoisseur tastes a vintage, and prolonging the expiration with hygienic gusto.

He counted the little flecks of cloud along the sky.

He followed the movements of the birds round the church tower--making long sweeps, hanging poised, or turning airy somersaults in fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary pinions.
And in this way he regained peace of mind and animal composure, conscious of his limbs, conscious of the sight of his eyes, conscious that the air had a cool taste, like a fruit, at the top of his throat; and at last, in complete abstraction, he began to sing.

The Doctor had but one air--, 'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre;' even with that he was on terms of mere politeness; and his musical exploits were always reserved for moments when he was alone and entirely happy.
He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained expression on the boy's face.
'What do you think of my singing ?' he inquired, stopping in the middle of a note; and then, after he had waited some little while and received no answer, 'What do you think of my singing ?' he repeated, imperiously.
'I do not like it,' faltered Jean-Marie.
'Oh, come!' cried the Doctor.

'Possibly you are a performer yourself ?' 'I sing better than that,' replied the boy.
The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefaction.