H poet of tbe poor 



poverty. With mocking-birds carousing, 

 much after the style of Anacreon, in the 

 vernal tangles all around me and above, I 

 have been reading Theocritus, meantime 

 actually longing for a sheepskin cloak and 

 a shepherd's flute. The Gulf's soft roar 

 and the halcyon blue came to my senses 

 confused, — as if sky and water were clash- 

 ing color and sound, — while the splashing 

 of pelicans added a note and some flashes 

 of its own — a curious luUing discord. 

 What a fine atmosphere it was in which 

 to understand the ancient Arcadian singer! 

 Behind me in the pine woods a scat- 

 tered herd of Creole cattle wandered, lazily 

 feeding, the leader's neck bearing a pas- 

 toral bell that tinkled a drowsy, desultory 

 tune, as the tunes of cow-bells go. Some- 

 where in the foliage overhead an insect 

 hummed, — a lone one not yet found out 

 by the mocking-birds, — hummed and 

 tapped sharply against the twigs, with just 

 a hint of spitefulness in each rebound. It 

 was not a cicada, but the monotonous 

 buzz, with its snappish breaks, would have 

 charmed a Greek poet, and so it charmed 

 99 



