I can always tell when it is a tramontana wind before I open my window, for Mariuccia makes such a clattering with the coffee-pot in the kitchen, and the goldfinch in the sitting-room sings very loud; which he never does if it is cloudy.

Nino, then, went off to Maestro Ercole's house for his singing, and this is what happened there.
De Pretis knew perfectly well that Nino had only asked for the extra lesson in order to get a chance of talking about the Contessina di Lira, and so, to tease him, as soon as he appeared, the maestro made a great bustle about singing scales, and insisted on beginning at once.
Moreover, he pretended to be in a bad humour; and that is always pretence with him.
"Ah, my little tenor," he began; "you want a lesson at seven in the morning, do you?
That is the time when all the washerwomen sing at the fountain! Well, you shall have a lesson, and by the body of Bacchus it shall be a real lesson! Now, then! Andiamo--Do-o-o!" and he roared out a great note that made the room shake, and a man who was selling cabbage in the street stopped his hand-cart and mimicked him for five minutes.
"But I am out of breath, maestro," protested Nino, who wanted to talk.
"Out of breath?
A singer is never out of breath.

Absurd! What would you do if you got out of breath, say, in the last act of _Lucia_, so--Bell'alma ado--?
?
Then your breath ends, eh?
Will you stay with the 'adored soul' between your teeth?
A fine singer you will make! Andiamo! Do-o-o!" Nino saw he must begin, and he set up a shout, much against his will, so that the cabbage-vendor chimed in, making so much noise that the old woman who lives opposite opened her window and emptied a great dustpan full of potato peelings and refuse leaves of lettuce right on his head.

And then there was a great noise.

But the maestro paid no attention, and went on with the scale, hardly giving Nino time to breathe.