as, is gone on ahead, and in the palace there
we are to work wonders in less time than it generally takes to consider
which end the work should be begun at."

"Then I will carry the cabbage into the palace for you," said Doris,
standing on tip-toe to hold a sausage to the lips of her tall son. Pollux
bit off a large mouthful and said, as he munched it:

"Excellent! I only wish that the thing I am to construct up there may
turn out as good a statue as this savory cylinder--now fast
disappearing--was a superior and admirable sausage."

"Have another?" said Doris.

"No mother; and you must not bring the cabbage either. Up to midnight not
a minute must be lost, and if I then leave off for a little while you
must by that time be dreaming of all sorts of pleasant things."

"I will carry you the cabbage then," said his father, "for I shall not be
in bed so early at any rate. The hymn to Sabina, composed by Mesomedes,
is to be performed with the chorus, as soon as the Empress visits the
theatre, and I am to lead the upper part of the old men, who grow young
again at the sight of her. The rehearsal is fixed for to-morrow, and I
know nothing about it yet. Old music, note for note, is ready and safe in
my throat, but new things--new things!"

"It is according to circumstances," said Pollux, laughing.

"If only they would perform your father's Satyr-play, or his Theseus!"
cried Doris.

"Only wait a little, I will recommend him to Caesar as soon as he is
proud to call me his friend, as the Phidias of the age. Then, when he
asks me 'Who is the happy man who begot you?' I will answer: It is
Euphorion, the divine poet and singer; and my mother, too, is a worthy
matron, the gate-keeper of your palace, Doris, the enchantress, who turns
dingy clothes into snow-white linen."

These last words the young artist sang in a fine and powerful voice to a
mode invented by his father.

"If only you had been a singer!" exclaimed Euphorion.

"Then I should have enjoyed the prospect," retorted Pollux, "of spending
the evening of my life as your successor in this little abode."

"And now for wretched pay, you plant the laurels with which Papias crowns
himself!" answered the old man shrugging his shoulders.

"His hour is coming, too," cried Doris, "his merit will be recognized; I
saw him in my dreams, with a great garland on his curly head!"

"Patience, father-patience," said the young man, grasping his father's
hand. "I am young and str