KER

Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit.--HORACE.

The sun still hung high over a neat little farm among the Sabine hills,
although the midday heat had given way to the soft and comforting
warmth of a September afternoon. Delicate shadows from dark-leaved
ilexes, from tall pines and white poplars, fell waveringly across
a secluded grass-plot which looked green and inviting even after the
parching summer. The sound of water bickering down the winding way
of a stream gave life and coolness to the warm silence. Thick among
the tree-trunks on one side grew cornel bushes and sloes, making a
solid mass of underbrush, while on the other side there was an opening
through which one might catch sight of a long meadow, and arable
fields beyond, and even of blue hills along the horizon.

But the master of this charming outlook evidently had his mind on
something else. He was a man about fifty-five years old, short and
stout, and with hair even greyer than his age warranted. As he leaned
back among his cushions on a stone bench, so skilfully placed under
an ilex tree that his face was protected while the sun fell across
his body, he looked an unromantic figure enough, no better than any
other Roman gentleman past his prime, seeking the sunshine and intent
on physical comfort. Indeed, only a gracefully low forehead and eyes
at once keen and genial saved his face from commonplaceness, and
would have led a spectator to feel any curiosity about his
meditations.

He had let fall into his lap a letter which had reached him that
morning, and which he had just reread. It had travelled all the way
from Gaul, and he had opened it eagerly, curious to know with what
new idea his younger friend was coquetting, and hoping to hear some
interesting literary gossip about their common acquaintances. But
the letter had been chiefly filled with questions as to why he had
not yet written, and, above all, why he did not send on some verses.
Horace still felt the irritation of the first reading, although he
had had his lunch and his nap, and had reached the serenest hour of
the day. When they said good-by in Rome he had told Florus that he
should not write: he was too lazy in these later years to write very
regularly to any one except Maecenas, the other part of his soul,
and it was foolish of the younger man not to have accepted the
situation. As for the request for verses, Horace felt ashamed of the
anger it had aroused in him. One would think