H poet of tbe ipoor 



me. Between the lines of an idyl, as be- 

 tween the golden bars of a dream-tune, I 

 watched the busy thing bumping and 

 droning. It had the scorched color — 

 alGaXicovsc— of idyllic cicadas. What more 

 could I want? 



But out of all the happy pastoral I drew 

 something not to be had of bird, or bee, or 

 flickering waves, or tinkling cow-bell, or 

 from all nature as seen and heard from 

 the hammock. The poet's Hnes distilled 

 the honey of true contentment, and be- 

 dewed my soul with it, leaving me no 

 excuse for any of those vague longings 

 and repinings so dear to one who has not 

 everything that the universe can offer. 

 Somehow, moreover, the landscape, the 

 dreamy air, the rioting birds, and the soli- 

 tary insect, with all that they suggested or 

 signified, slipped into the reading, while 

 the hammock gently listed on the Hterary 

 side, as though the book in hand had the 

 weight of gold. '* Sweet, indeed, the calf 

 calls, and sweetly lows the heifer," — yes, 

 they were mooing while I read, — *' and the 

 cowherd blows sweetly on his syrinx, and 



lOO 



