H poet ot tbe poor 



inner glow of his genius, the rfiri of his 

 Muse, are felt only in his bucolic piping 

 and in that picture of absolute poverty in 

 Idyl XXI. It is like living the herdsman's 

 life along the sunny mountain-slopes to 

 read Idyl VIII. One hears the flutes. 

 Even in Idyl VII, where Theocritus be- 

 gins to put on a student's airs, the musk 

 of the goats is still blended with the summer 

 day's opulence and flower perfume, fruit 

 fragrance and the must of grapes and 

 grain. Indeed, this goat-musk (xivdjjpa) 

 and the suggestion of rude cheese-pressers 

 and the curd and rennet ought to be a 

 passport to the favor of modern realists. 



The little song at the end of Idyl X is 

 a fine bit of rural wit and irony. I have 

 heard the like, barring the inimitable art 

 of hiding art, in the hay-fields of the West, 

 but, of course, not in verse. 



Boys, the frog 's a lucky fellow ; he 



Don't have to waste his wages for his beer ; 



The drink he likes he swims in, don't ye see ! 



I have been going through these old 

 Doric masterpieces again in memory of 

 114 



