H poet ot tbe poor 



I too sweetly join in with mine." Or 

 better, the very words — ah, infinitely 

 better, the incomparable music of the 

 Doric flute: 



61.00 jULev d ii.6aY0(; •^a.poz'zoLi, dSu 81 ya ^wc, 

 ct.00 th y^ct oup'Y^, x^ ^oov.6\oz' aou hh X7]Y">v, 

 loxl Si: jixo'. Trap' oooip ^]/oyp6v OTcpai;. 



It is said that we always have the poor 

 with us ; and we might strengthen the re- 

 mark by adding that the rich are seldom 

 at our doors. Another almost proverbial 

 inscription on the lintel of poverty tells 

 how happy is life in a hovel and how sweet 

 tastes the crust of stale bread. That 

 ancient suggestion, sandwiched between 

 the camel and the needle's eye, is right 

 cleverly counterbalanced by the blessed- 

 ness and the heavenly inheritance of those 

 who are sufficiently emaciated to go 

 through without touching where a well- 

 fed man would stick fast. 



Doubtless poverty and a certain crude 

 happiness have, under favoring environ- 

 ments, sometimes gone hand in hand; at 

 all events, it is a human tradition, of great 



lOI 



