One day when we went over to play with Tom we saw a peacock for the first time, and at supper became enthusiastic over the discovery.  In the midst of our rhapsodizing grandmother asked us if we knew how those beautiful spots came to be in the feathers of the peacock.  We confessed our ignorance, and like Ajax, prayed for light.  But we soon became aware that our prayer would not be answered until after the supper dishes had been washed.  Our alacrity in proffering our services is conclusive evidence that grandmother knew about motivation whether she knew the word or not.  We suggested the omission of the skillets and pans for that night only, but the suggestion fell upon barren soil, and the regular order of business was strictly observed.

Then came the story, and the narrator made the characters seem lifelike to us as they passed in review.  There were Jupiter and Juno; there were Argus with his hundred eyes, the beautiful heifer that was Io, and the crafty Mercury.  In rapt attention we listened until those eyes of Argus were transferred to the feathers of the peacock.  If Mercury’s story of his musical pipe closed the eyes of Argus, grandmother’s story opened ours wide, and we clamored for another, as boys will do.  Nor did we ask in vain, and we were soon learning of the Flying Mercury, and how light and airy Mercury was, seeing that an infant’s breath could support him.  After telling of the wild ride of Phaeton and his overthrow, she quoted from John G. Saxe: 

  “Don’t set it down in your table of forces
  That any one man equals any four horses. 
  Don’t swear by the Styx! 
  It is one of old Nick’s
  Diabolical tricks
  To get people into a regular ‘fix,’
  And hold ’em there as fast as bricks!”

Be it said to our credit that after such an evening dish-washing was no longer a task, but rather a delightful prelude to another mythological feast.  We wandered with Ulysses and shuddered at Polyphemus; we went in quest of the Golden Fleece, and watched the sack of Troy; we came to know Orpheus and Eurydice and Pyramus and Thisbe; and we sowed dragon’s teeth and saw armed men spring up before us.  Since those glorious evenings with grandmother the classic myths have been among my keenest delights.  I read again and again Lowell’s extravaganza upon the story of Daphne, and can hear grandmother’s laugh over his delicious puns.  I can hear her voice as she reads Shelley’s musical Arethusa, and then turns to his Skylark to compare their musical qualities.  I feel downright sorry for the boy who has no such grandmother to teach him these poems, but not more sorry than I do for those boys who took that Diamond Dick book with them when they went visiting.  Even now, when people talk to me of omniscience I always think of grandmother.

CHAPTER XXIV

MY WORLD