While he revelled in The Arabian Nights, he read also, and with no small enjoyment, the Night Thoughts--books, it will be confessed, considerably apart both in scope and in style.

But while thus, for purest pleasure, fond of reading, to enjoy life it was to him enough to lie in the grass; in certain moods, the smell of the commonest flower would drive him half crazy with delight.

On a holiday his head would be haunted with old ballads like a sunflower with bees: on other days they would only come and go.

He rejoiced even in nursery rimes, only in his head somehow or other they got glorified.

The swing and hum and BIZZ of a line, one that might have to him no discoverable meaning, would play its tune in him as well as any mountain-stream its infinite water-jumble melody.