Then we all began to eat oranges, and make dripping spectacles of ourselves generally. I defy any one to be graceful, or even dainty, with an orange; it is a great, rich, generous, pulpy fruit, and you have got to eat it in a great, rich, generous, pulpy way. How we did enjoy those oranges under the glossy green and fragrant blossoms of the trees themselves! We gave it up then and there, and said openly that no bought Northern oranges could compare with them. “I don’t feel politically so much disturbed now about the cost of that sea-wall,” said Sara, “if it keeps this orange grove from washing away. It is doing a sweet and noble duty in life, and herein is cause sufficient for its stony existence.” We strolled back to the town by another way, and crossed again the Maria Sanchez Creek. “Observe how she meanders down the marsh, this fairy streamlet,” I said, taking up a position on the stone culvert. “Observe how green are her rushes, how playful her little minnows, how martial her fiddler-crabs! O lost Maria! come back and tell your story. Were you sadly drowned in these overwhelming waves, or were you the first explorer of these marshes, pushing onward in your canoe with your eyes fixed on futurity!” Nobody knew; so we went home. But in the evening John produced the following, which he said had been preserved in the archives of the town for centuries. “I have made a free translation, as you will see,” he said; “but the original is in pure Castilian.” “THE LEGEND OF MARIA SANCHEZ CREEK. “Maria Sanchez Her dug-out launches, And down the stream to catch some crabs she takes her way, A Spanish maiden, With crabs well laden; When evening falls she lifts her trawls to cross the bay. “Grim terror blanches Maria Sanchez, Who, not to put too fine a point, is rather brown; A norther coming, Already humming, Doth bear away that Spanish mai--den far from town. “Maria Sanchez, Caught in the branches That sweetly droop across a creek far down the coast, That calm spectator, The alligator, Doth spy, then wait to call his mate, who rules the roast. “She comes and craunches Maria Sanchez, While boat and crabs the gentle husband meekly chews. How _could_ they eat her, That señorita, Whose story still doth make quite ill the Spanish Muse?” We heaped praises upon John’s pure Castilian ode--all save the Professor, who undertook to criticise a little. “I have made something of a study of poetry,” he began, “and I have noticed that much depends upon the selection of choice terms. For instance, in the first verse you make use of the local word ‘dug-out.’ Now in my opinion, ‘craft’ or ‘canoe’ would be better. You begin, if I remember correctly, in this way: “‘Maria Sanchez Launches her dug-out--’”