They sat for a while, gazing contentedly at the clusters of elder blossoms which hung above them, filling the air with a rich fragrance which was spiced by the tang of sage. A ruby-throated humming-bird flashed suddenly past them and was gone; a red-shafted woodpecker, still more gorgeous in his scarlet plumage, descended in uneven flights from the _sahuaros_ that clung against the cliff and, fastening upon a hollow tree, set up a mysterious rapping. "He is hunting for grubs," explained Hardy. "Does that inspire you?" "Why, no," answered Lucy, puzzled. "The Mexicans call him _pajaro corazon_--_pah-hah-ro cor-ah-sone_," continued the poet. "Does that appeal to your soul?" "Why, no. What does it mean--woodpecker?" Hardy smiled. "No," he said, "a woodpecker with them is called _carpintero_--carpenter, you understand--because he hammers on trees; but my friend up on the stump yonder is _Pajaro Corazon_--bird of the heart. I have a poem dedicated to him." Then, as if to excuse himself from the reading, he hastened on: "Of course, no true poet would commit such a breach--he would write a sonnet to his lady's eyebrow, a poem in memory of a broken dream, or some sad lament for Love, which has died simultaneously with his own blasted hopes. But a sense of my own unimportance has saved me--or the world, at any rate--from such laments. _Pajaro Corazon_ and _Chupa Rosa_, a little humming-bird who lives in that elder tree, have been my only friends and companions in the muse, until you came. I wouldn't abuse _Chupa Rosa's_ confidence by reading my poem to her. Her lover has turned out a worthless fellow and left her--that was him you saw flying past just now, going up the canyon to sport around with the other hummers--but here is my poem to _Pajaro Corazon_." He drew forth his bundle of papers and in a shamefaced way handed one of them to Lucy. It was a slip of yellow note paper, checked along the margin with groups of rhyming words and scansion marks, and in the middle this single verse. "Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart! Some knight of honor in those bygone days Of dreams and gold and quests through desert lands, Seeing thy blood-red heart flash in the rays Of setting sun--which lured him far from Spain-- Lifted his face and, reading there a sign From his dear lady, crossed himself and spake Then first, the name which still is thine." Lucy folded the paper and gazed across at him rapturously. "Oh, Rufus," she cried, "why didn't you send it to me?" "Is it good?" asked Hardy, forgetting his pose; and when she nodded solemnly he said: "There is another verse--look on the other side." Lucy turned the paper over quickly and read again: