and can imagine him--the poet himself--coming to see me through thewoods and down the hill with the careless ease and lightness of heart ofhis own purple-winged tiny child of earth and air--_tan suelta y tanfestiva_. Here in these four or five words one may read the whole secretof his charm--the exquisite delicacy and seeming art-lessness in theform, and the spirit that is in him--the aged, simple, healthy, naturalgladness in nature, and feeling of kinship with all the tiny children oflife. But I do not wish to disturb anyone in his prepossessions. Itwould greatly trouble me to think that my reader should, for the spaceof a page, or even of a single line, find himself in opposition to andnot with me; and I am free to admit that with regard to poetry one'spreferences change according to the mood one happens to be in and to theconditions generally. At home in murky London on most days I shouldprobably seek pleasure and forgetfulness in Browning; but in suchsurroundings as I have been describing the lighter-hearted, elf-likeMelendez accords best with my spirit, one whose finest songs are withouthuman interest; who is irresponsible as the wind, and as unstained withearthly care as the limpid running water he delights in: who is brotherto bird and bee and cheesefly, and worships only liberty and sunshine,and is in love with nothing but a flower.

Nearly midway between the useful little bridge and the rose-blossomingtangle I have spoken of there were three elm-trees growing in the opengrassy space near the brook; they were not lofty, but had somewhatwide-spreading horizontal branches, which made them look like oaks. Thiswas an ideal spot in which to spend the sultry hours, and I had nosooner cast myself on the short grass in the shade than I noticed thatthe end of a projecting branch above my head, and about twenty feet fromthe ground, was a favourite perch of a tree-pipit. He sang in the airand, circling gracefully down, would alight on the branch, where,sitting near me and plainly visible, he would finish his song and renewit at intervals; then, leaving the loved perch, he would drop, singing,to the ground, just a few yards beyond the tree's shadow; thence,singing again, he would mount up and up above the tree, only to slidedown once more with set, unfluttering wings, with a beautiful swayingmotion to the same old resting-place on the branch, there to sing andsing and sing.