The keen light revealed every object in the long valley below us; the fresh west wind fluttered the oakleaves above; and the low voice of the water, coaxing or scolding its way over bare roots or mossy stones, was just audible.
"Doctor," said I, "this spring, with the oak hanging over it, is, I suppose, your Fountain of Bandusia.

You remember what Horace says of his spring, which yielded such cool refreshment when the dog-star had set the day on fire.

What a fine picture he gives us of this charming feature of his little farm!" The Doctor's eye kindled.

"I'm glad to see you like Horace; not merely as a clever satirist and writer of amatory odes, but as a true lover of Nature.

How pleasant are his simple and beautiful descriptions of his yellow, flowing Tiber, the herds and herdsmen, the harvesters, the grape vintage, the varied aspects of his Sabine retreat in the fierce summer heats, or when the snowy forehead of Soracte purpled in winter sunsets! Scattered through his odes and the occasional poems which he addresses to his city friends, you find these graceful and inimitable touches of rural beauty, each a picture in itself." "It is long since I have looked at my old school-day companions, the classics," said Elder Staples; "but I remember Horace only as a light, witty, careless epicurean, famous for his lyrics in praise of Falernian wine and questionable women." "Somewhat too much of that, doubtless," said the Doctor; "but to me Horace is serious and profoundly suggestive, nevertheless.