round to all the houses and sing it, just like boys sing carols at Christmas. This is it:
"She comes, she comes, the swallow,
bringing beautiful hours,
beautiful seasons,
white on the belly,
black on the back.
Do thou roll forth a fruit-cake
out of the rich house,
and a beaker of wine
and a basket of cheeses;
and wheat-bread the swallow
and the pulse porridge
does not reject. Say, shall we go away, or something receive?
If thou givest—well! But if not, we won't let you off!
Shall we bear off the door, or else the lintel?
Or else the wife that is seated within?
She's a small body, easily shall we carry her off!—
But if you give us something,
something great may you get.
Open, open the door to the swallow,
we are not old men, but childerkins here."'
Then I went on to recite to her the Greek, and she swayed her body a little in sympathy with the rhythm of the words, so that I, who was pleased with it all, gradually grew into the humour in which I had been before when I exclaimed: 'Oh you Rosebud!' till, at the words ἠ τὰν γυναῖκα τὰν ἒσω καθημέναν, I gave one look at her, sitting there, childlike and fairy-like and dear, and could have caught her up in my arms, and then . . . I didn't know what I should have done then.
I sat still, looking out into the night.
After a little:
'I wonder,' said her quiet voice, 'I wonder if you would teach me that?" . . . I think I could soon learn it.'
'You need not wonder any more,' I said slowly, still looking out into the night, 'I will teach it you.'
And so we began, I to repeat the translated words, she to say them after me, I still looking out into the night, she as I knew looking up at my face. She had an excellent memory. She had soon learnt the piece, and repeated it alone faultlessly.
'You have a good memory,' I said.
