THE MAYFLY. 161 



have sat upon the bank on a summer afternoon 

 waiting for the shadows to lengthen, and have 

 conjured up the ivory forms of Cloe or of 

 Lalage glancing under the deeper water, or 

 sitting in a shallow with wet hair clinging to 

 their supple-moulded backs. 



How he would have recalled their voices 

 * dulce ridentem dulce loquentem ' babbling 

 among the stones; and then have grasped his 

 willow rod, as a deep-toned ploop told him that 

 a trout had begun to suck down flies under the 

 tallest clump of iris close to the opposite bank. 



These thoughts of naiads of the stream come 

 over us all so strongly indeed at seasons, that 

 it is some time before we can rouse ourselves 

 to focus our eyes and realise that it is time 

 to be up and doing, if we intend to discard 

 these waking dreams, and take full advantage 

 of that delicious half hour between sunset and 

 dusk which the gods have provided. Horace 

 must have loved the birds, as he loved nature's 

 changing face, and the fleeting seasons that 

 passed over his whitening head on the Sabine 

 farm, but left his heart as ruddy as Falernian 

 wine. 



