on the topmost dead spire of my tree, but 

 observed me almost instantly, and flew 

 away far down the creek. 



Horace, meantime, had shown all the 

 vast indifference of genius, taking no 

 notice whatever of my preference for the 

 birds, knowing that it was but temporary, 

 while his fascination was more enduring 

 than brass. The pretty egret walked along 

 beside the water, and presently passed out 

 of sight behind some rushes and aquatic 

 weeds. "Jam te captum teneo," said 

 Horace, and I settled again to my reading. 



Maecenas, mearum 

 Grande decus columenque rerum. 



There it is again. In the second verse of 

 the first ode it was 



O et praesidium et dulce decus meum. 



When a poet has a Maecenas he is a fool 

 if he neglects to flatter him. Horace is 

 not a fool. He knows who it was gave 

 him his Sabine farm and made it possible 

 for him to sip veteris pocula Massici and 

 lounge idly beside the sacred well-heads. 

 Ah, this lounging, this leisure, this ampli- 

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