a hundred interesting sights. They passed an outdoor oven like a little
round hill of stones and clay. The baker was just raking the fire out of
the little door on the side. Charmides waited to see him put the loaves
into the hot cave. But before it was done a horn blew and called him
away to a little table covered with cakes.

"Honey cakes! Almond cakes! Fig cakes!" sang the man. "Come buy!"

There they lay--stars and fish and ships and temples. Charmides picked
up one in the shape of a lyre.

"I will take this one," he said, and solemnly ate it.

"Why are you so solemn, son?" laughed Menon.

The boy did not answer. He only looked up at his father with deep eyes
and said nothing. But in a moment he was racing off to see some rope
dancers.

"Glaucon," said the master to the slave, "take care of the boy. Give him
a good time. Buy him what he wants. Take him back to camp when he is
tired. I have business to do."

Then he turned to talk with a friend, who had come up, and Glaucon
followed his little master.

What a good time the boy had! The rope dancers, the sword swallowers,
the Egyptian with his painted scroll, a trained bear that wrestled with
a wild-looking man dressed in skins, a cooking tent where whole sheep
were roasting and turning over a fire, another where tiny fish were
boiling in a great pot of oil and jumping as if alive--he saw them all.
He stood under the sculptors' awning and gazed at the marble people more
beautiful than life. And when he came upon Apollo striking his lyre, his
heart leaped into his mouth. He stood quiet for a long time gazing at
this god of song. Then he walked out of the tent with shining eyes.

At last it grew dark, and torches began to blaze in front of the booths.

"Shall we go home, Charmides?" said Glaucon.

"Oh, no!" cried the boy. "I haven't seen it all. I am not tired. It is
gayer now than ever with the torches. See all those shining flames."

And he ran to a booth where a hundred little bronze lamps hung, each
with its tongue of clear light. It was an imagemaker's booth. The table
stood full of little clay statues of the gods. Charmides took up one. It
was a young man leaning against a tree trunk. On his arm he held a baby.

"It is a model of the great marble Hermes in the temple of Hera, my
little master," said the image maker. "Great Praxiteles made that one,
poor Philo made this one."

"It is beautiful," said Charmides and turned away, holding it tenderly
in