VThe next day it was four o’clock before he went up to the Kolonaki and found the blind old man seated on a chair outside his door, waiting for him patiently. The daily newspaper was read, but without the usual stopping for questions. When the reading was over Aleko opened his box and pulled out his book. Then he flung himself down and resting the book on the old man’s knees opened the tattered, scribbled-over blue paper cover.“Master,” he said, “these are ancient Greek words; I heard a man say them to another, and I wrote them down. What do they mean?” and he read the words aloud slowly:—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Ah, my child!” and the old man’s voice trembled a little, “they knew so much, those old forefathers of ours,—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Yes, that is from Menander. How shall I tell you? It means so many things and so many different things at different times. Sometimes, I think, it may mean simply, that it is a duty to be a man and not a brute. Let me explain ….”“I know!” broke in Aleko, whose eyes had been fixed on the entrance of the narrow street. “You mean, to be like you and not like that fruit-seller over there who is kicking his donkey because he has laden it too heavily, and it cannot walk.” Kyr Themistocli smiled.“Well, … yes, if you like, my boy … yes. Sometimes it means that it is a glorious thing to be all that a man can be! to be afraid of no evil talk, to hold your head very high, to remember that we have sprung from a race which has given light to all the civilized world, to become all that an ancient Greek of the best might have been. I do not mean that there were no bad men among them! Which race has been without? There were Ephialtes11… Antipater12… and many others. But to approach the noblest, … to touch the hem of their garment … who would not be proud? Sometimes, Aleko, it means that likeSocrates, one must give work, and strength, and patience, and forgiveness to others, and look for nothing in return. Sometimes it means that a man, to be a man, must give the thing that is hardest to give of all—his life even!”“But …” began Aleko hesitatingly.“What, my child? Ask all that you wish.”“If a man—a great man, and a good man as you say—gives his life, then it is finished; he cannot help anyone, or be great, or strong, any more.”“Ah, no! Many people have said that, little one, but I must make you see further. There are those who will say, if this man had not done this deed of sacrifice, if he had kept his own valuable life, he might have done many more great things later on. Ah, but they forget ….” and the blind man stretched out his arms as though appealing to an unseen audience. “They forget that all the useful and good things which he might still have done, are as nothing before the wonderful example he has given, before …. Oh, how shall I tell you, my child? … before the way in which he hasmade thousands of men’s and women’s hearts beat with noble thoughts,—before the way in which he has made the little children of his land lift up their heads, and say, ‘I, too, will be like him some day!’ No, Aleko, no! What he has done lasts through the years; and the bravery of great men of whom you will read some day, such a deed for instance as that of Paul Melas13in our own time, makes all the world nobler and stronger for them, even after their names come to be forgotten!”There was silence for some minutes, then Aleko said:—“When I am twenty-one years old, and my time comes to serve in the army, if there be a war while I am a soldier, then I may be very brave and perhaps …” his eyes brightened as he spoke, “they may print it in the newspaper, and someone will read it to you, and you will say, ‘That is Aleko, I know him.’ But if there is no war, … then what can I do?”“It is of your age, my child, to think that only in fighting can one be brave; but I could fill a big book with all the different kinds of courage.”“Tell me, then! How could I be brave if there were no war?”The blind man groped for the boy’s hand and held it for a moment.“I think you are bravenow.”“But that is impossible; I have done naught.”“Suppose that next year when you finish the highest class of the Parnassos, you were to get the first prize?”“Yes,” assented Aleko, “I shall get it.”“Very well; how much is it?”“Three hundred drachmæ.”“Would that sum not be sufficient to keep you for a year at least without working, if you wished to go to a higher class in the Municipal School?”“It would be sufficient for me alone, but who would send money to my mother and the little ones, if I did not work?”“That is just what I meant; you go on working for them, instead of getting more learning for yourself, as you would like to do. Well, that is a brave deed!”“But, no,” said the boy, his face puckered with perplexity, “that is not brave. I do not like it at all!”“But you do it.”Aleko got up from his knees.“I do not do it; it does itself. How can I help it?” then, as he shouldered his box to go, he asked, “After I have read to-morrow, will you tell me about some more great men?”“I will tell you all I know; … only come!”
VThe next day it was four o’clock before he went up to the Kolonaki and found the blind old man seated on a chair outside his door, waiting for him patiently. The daily newspaper was read, but without the usual stopping for questions. When the reading was over Aleko opened his box and pulled out his book. Then he flung himself down and resting the book on the old man’s knees opened the tattered, scribbled-over blue paper cover.“Master,” he said, “these are ancient Greek words; I heard a man say them to another, and I wrote them down. What do they mean?” and he read the words aloud slowly:—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Ah, my child!” and the old man’s voice trembled a little, “they knew so much, those old forefathers of ours,—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Yes, that is from Menander. How shall I tell you? It means so many things and so many different things at different times. Sometimes, I think, it may mean simply, that it is a duty to be a man and not a brute. Let me explain ….”“I know!” broke in Aleko, whose eyes had been fixed on the entrance of the narrow street. “You mean, to be like you and not like that fruit-seller over there who is kicking his donkey because he has laden it too heavily, and it cannot walk.” Kyr Themistocli smiled.“Well, … yes, if you like, my boy … yes. Sometimes it means that it is a glorious thing to be all that a man can be! to be afraid of no evil talk, to hold your head very high, to remember that we have sprung from a race which has given light to all the civilized world, to become all that an ancient Greek of the best might have been. I do not mean that there were no bad men among them! Which race has been without? There were Ephialtes11… Antipater12… and many others. But to approach the noblest, … to touch the hem of their garment … who would not be proud? Sometimes, Aleko, it means that likeSocrates, one must give work, and strength, and patience, and forgiveness to others, and look for nothing in return. Sometimes it means that a man, to be a man, must give the thing that is hardest to give of all—his life even!”“But …” began Aleko hesitatingly.“What, my child? Ask all that you wish.”“If a man—a great man, and a good man as you say—gives his life, then it is finished; he cannot help anyone, or be great, or strong, any more.”“Ah, no! Many people have said that, little one, but I must make you see further. There are those who will say, if this man had not done this deed of sacrifice, if he had kept his own valuable life, he might have done many more great things later on. Ah, but they forget ….” and the blind man stretched out his arms as though appealing to an unseen audience. “They forget that all the useful and good things which he might still have done, are as nothing before the wonderful example he has given, before …. Oh, how shall I tell you, my child? … before the way in which he hasmade thousands of men’s and women’s hearts beat with noble thoughts,—before the way in which he has made the little children of his land lift up their heads, and say, ‘I, too, will be like him some day!’ No, Aleko, no! What he has done lasts through the years; and the bravery of great men of whom you will read some day, such a deed for instance as that of Paul Melas13in our own time, makes all the world nobler and stronger for them, even after their names come to be forgotten!”There was silence for some minutes, then Aleko said:—“When I am twenty-one years old, and my time comes to serve in the army, if there be a war while I am a soldier, then I may be very brave and perhaps …” his eyes brightened as he spoke, “they may print it in the newspaper, and someone will read it to you, and you will say, ‘That is Aleko, I know him.’ But if there is no war, … then what can I do?”“It is of your age, my child, to think that only in fighting can one be brave; but I could fill a big book with all the different kinds of courage.”“Tell me, then! How could I be brave if there were no war?”The blind man groped for the boy’s hand and held it for a moment.“I think you are bravenow.”“But that is impossible; I have done naught.”“Suppose that next year when you finish the highest class of the Parnassos, you were to get the first prize?”“Yes,” assented Aleko, “I shall get it.”“Very well; how much is it?”“Three hundred drachmæ.”“Would that sum not be sufficient to keep you for a year at least without working, if you wished to go to a higher class in the Municipal School?”“It would be sufficient for me alone, but who would send money to my mother and the little ones, if I did not work?”“That is just what I meant; you go on working for them, instead of getting more learning for yourself, as you would like to do. Well, that is a brave deed!”“But, no,” said the boy, his face puckered with perplexity, “that is not brave. I do not like it at all!”“But you do it.”Aleko got up from his knees.“I do not do it; it does itself. How can I help it?” then, as he shouldered his box to go, he asked, “After I have read to-morrow, will you tell me about some more great men?”“I will tell you all I know; … only come!”
VThe next day it was four o’clock before he went up to the Kolonaki and found the blind old man seated on a chair outside his door, waiting for him patiently. The daily newspaper was read, but without the usual stopping for questions. When the reading was over Aleko opened his box and pulled out his book. Then he flung himself down and resting the book on the old man’s knees opened the tattered, scribbled-over blue paper cover.“Master,” he said, “these are ancient Greek words; I heard a man say them to another, and I wrote them down. What do they mean?” and he read the words aloud slowly:—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Ah, my child!” and the old man’s voice trembled a little, “they knew so much, those old forefathers of ours,—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Yes, that is from Menander. How shall I tell you? It means so many things and so many different things at different times. Sometimes, I think, it may mean simply, that it is a duty to be a man and not a brute. Let me explain ….”“I know!” broke in Aleko, whose eyes had been fixed on the entrance of the narrow street. “You mean, to be like you and not like that fruit-seller over there who is kicking his donkey because he has laden it too heavily, and it cannot walk.” Kyr Themistocli smiled.“Well, … yes, if you like, my boy … yes. Sometimes it means that it is a glorious thing to be all that a man can be! to be afraid of no evil talk, to hold your head very high, to remember that we have sprung from a race which has given light to all the civilized world, to become all that an ancient Greek of the best might have been. I do not mean that there were no bad men among them! Which race has been without? There were Ephialtes11… Antipater12… and many others. But to approach the noblest, … to touch the hem of their garment … who would not be proud? Sometimes, Aleko, it means that likeSocrates, one must give work, and strength, and patience, and forgiveness to others, and look for nothing in return. Sometimes it means that a man, to be a man, must give the thing that is hardest to give of all—his life even!”“But …” began Aleko hesitatingly.“What, my child? Ask all that you wish.”“If a man—a great man, and a good man as you say—gives his life, then it is finished; he cannot help anyone, or be great, or strong, any more.”“Ah, no! Many people have said that, little one, but I must make you see further. There are those who will say, if this man had not done this deed of sacrifice, if he had kept his own valuable life, he might have done many more great things later on. Ah, but they forget ….” and the blind man stretched out his arms as though appealing to an unseen audience. “They forget that all the useful and good things which he might still have done, are as nothing before the wonderful example he has given, before …. Oh, how shall I tell you, my child? … before the way in which he hasmade thousands of men’s and women’s hearts beat with noble thoughts,—before the way in which he has made the little children of his land lift up their heads, and say, ‘I, too, will be like him some day!’ No, Aleko, no! What he has done lasts through the years; and the bravery of great men of whom you will read some day, such a deed for instance as that of Paul Melas13in our own time, makes all the world nobler and stronger for them, even after their names come to be forgotten!”There was silence for some minutes, then Aleko said:—“When I am twenty-one years old, and my time comes to serve in the army, if there be a war while I am a soldier, then I may be very brave and perhaps …” his eyes brightened as he spoke, “they may print it in the newspaper, and someone will read it to you, and you will say, ‘That is Aleko, I know him.’ But if there is no war, … then what can I do?”“It is of your age, my child, to think that only in fighting can one be brave; but I could fill a big book with all the different kinds of courage.”“Tell me, then! How could I be brave if there were no war?”The blind man groped for the boy’s hand and held it for a moment.“I think you are bravenow.”“But that is impossible; I have done naught.”“Suppose that next year when you finish the highest class of the Parnassos, you were to get the first prize?”“Yes,” assented Aleko, “I shall get it.”“Very well; how much is it?”“Three hundred drachmæ.”“Would that sum not be sufficient to keep you for a year at least without working, if you wished to go to a higher class in the Municipal School?”“It would be sufficient for me alone, but who would send money to my mother and the little ones, if I did not work?”“That is just what I meant; you go on working for them, instead of getting more learning for yourself, as you would like to do. Well, that is a brave deed!”“But, no,” said the boy, his face puckered with perplexity, “that is not brave. I do not like it at all!”“But you do it.”Aleko got up from his knees.“I do not do it; it does itself. How can I help it?” then, as he shouldered his box to go, he asked, “After I have read to-morrow, will you tell me about some more great men?”“I will tell you all I know; … only come!”
VThe next day it was four o’clock before he went up to the Kolonaki and found the blind old man seated on a chair outside his door, waiting for him patiently. The daily newspaper was read, but without the usual stopping for questions. When the reading was over Aleko opened his box and pulled out his book. Then he flung himself down and resting the book on the old man’s knees opened the tattered, scribbled-over blue paper cover.“Master,” he said, “these are ancient Greek words; I heard a man say them to another, and I wrote them down. What do they mean?” and he read the words aloud slowly:—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Ah, my child!” and the old man’s voice trembled a little, “they knew so much, those old forefathers of ours,—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Yes, that is from Menander. How shall I tell you? It means so many things and so many different things at different times. Sometimes, I think, it may mean simply, that it is a duty to be a man and not a brute. Let me explain ….”“I know!” broke in Aleko, whose eyes had been fixed on the entrance of the narrow street. “You mean, to be like you and not like that fruit-seller over there who is kicking his donkey because he has laden it too heavily, and it cannot walk.” Kyr Themistocli smiled.“Well, … yes, if you like, my boy … yes. Sometimes it means that it is a glorious thing to be all that a man can be! to be afraid of no evil talk, to hold your head very high, to remember that we have sprung from a race which has given light to all the civilized world, to become all that an ancient Greek of the best might have been. I do not mean that there were no bad men among them! Which race has been without? There were Ephialtes11… Antipater12… and many others. But to approach the noblest, … to touch the hem of their garment … who would not be proud? Sometimes, Aleko, it means that likeSocrates, one must give work, and strength, and patience, and forgiveness to others, and look for nothing in return. Sometimes it means that a man, to be a man, must give the thing that is hardest to give of all—his life even!”“But …” began Aleko hesitatingly.“What, my child? Ask all that you wish.”“If a man—a great man, and a good man as you say—gives his life, then it is finished; he cannot help anyone, or be great, or strong, any more.”“Ah, no! Many people have said that, little one, but I must make you see further. There are those who will say, if this man had not done this deed of sacrifice, if he had kept his own valuable life, he might have done many more great things later on. Ah, but they forget ….” and the blind man stretched out his arms as though appealing to an unseen audience. “They forget that all the useful and good things which he might still have done, are as nothing before the wonderful example he has given, before …. Oh, how shall I tell you, my child? … before the way in which he hasmade thousands of men’s and women’s hearts beat with noble thoughts,—before the way in which he has made the little children of his land lift up their heads, and say, ‘I, too, will be like him some day!’ No, Aleko, no! What he has done lasts through the years; and the bravery of great men of whom you will read some day, such a deed for instance as that of Paul Melas13in our own time, makes all the world nobler and stronger for them, even after their names come to be forgotten!”There was silence for some minutes, then Aleko said:—“When I am twenty-one years old, and my time comes to serve in the army, if there be a war while I am a soldier, then I may be very brave and perhaps …” his eyes brightened as he spoke, “they may print it in the newspaper, and someone will read it to you, and you will say, ‘That is Aleko, I know him.’ But if there is no war, … then what can I do?”“It is of your age, my child, to think that only in fighting can one be brave; but I could fill a big book with all the different kinds of courage.”“Tell me, then! How could I be brave if there were no war?”The blind man groped for the boy’s hand and held it for a moment.“I think you are bravenow.”“But that is impossible; I have done naught.”“Suppose that next year when you finish the highest class of the Parnassos, you were to get the first prize?”“Yes,” assented Aleko, “I shall get it.”“Very well; how much is it?”“Three hundred drachmæ.”“Would that sum not be sufficient to keep you for a year at least without working, if you wished to go to a higher class in the Municipal School?”“It would be sufficient for me alone, but who would send money to my mother and the little ones, if I did not work?”“That is just what I meant; you go on working for them, instead of getting more learning for yourself, as you would like to do. Well, that is a brave deed!”“But, no,” said the boy, his face puckered with perplexity, “that is not brave. I do not like it at all!”“But you do it.”Aleko got up from his knees.“I do not do it; it does itself. How can I help it?” then, as he shouldered his box to go, he asked, “After I have read to-morrow, will you tell me about some more great men?”“I will tell you all I know; … only come!”
V
The next day it was four o’clock before he went up to the Kolonaki and found the blind old man seated on a chair outside his door, waiting for him patiently. The daily newspaper was read, but without the usual stopping for questions. When the reading was over Aleko opened his box and pulled out his book. Then he flung himself down and resting the book on the old man’s knees opened the tattered, scribbled-over blue paper cover.“Master,” he said, “these are ancient Greek words; I heard a man say them to another, and I wrote them down. What do they mean?” and he read the words aloud slowly:—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Ah, my child!” and the old man’s voice trembled a little, “they knew so much, those old forefathers of ours,—ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ“Yes, that is from Menander. How shall I tell you? It means so many things and so many different things at different times. Sometimes, I think, it may mean simply, that it is a duty to be a man and not a brute. Let me explain ….”“I know!” broke in Aleko, whose eyes had been fixed on the entrance of the narrow street. “You mean, to be like you and not like that fruit-seller over there who is kicking his donkey because he has laden it too heavily, and it cannot walk.” Kyr Themistocli smiled.“Well, … yes, if you like, my boy … yes. Sometimes it means that it is a glorious thing to be all that a man can be! to be afraid of no evil talk, to hold your head very high, to remember that we have sprung from a race which has given light to all the civilized world, to become all that an ancient Greek of the best might have been. I do not mean that there were no bad men among them! Which race has been without? There were Ephialtes11… Antipater12… and many others. But to approach the noblest, … to touch the hem of their garment … who would not be proud? Sometimes, Aleko, it means that likeSocrates, one must give work, and strength, and patience, and forgiveness to others, and look for nothing in return. Sometimes it means that a man, to be a man, must give the thing that is hardest to give of all—his life even!”“But …” began Aleko hesitatingly.“What, my child? Ask all that you wish.”“If a man—a great man, and a good man as you say—gives his life, then it is finished; he cannot help anyone, or be great, or strong, any more.”“Ah, no! Many people have said that, little one, but I must make you see further. There are those who will say, if this man had not done this deed of sacrifice, if he had kept his own valuable life, he might have done many more great things later on. Ah, but they forget ….” and the blind man stretched out his arms as though appealing to an unseen audience. “They forget that all the useful and good things which he might still have done, are as nothing before the wonderful example he has given, before …. Oh, how shall I tell you, my child? … before the way in which he hasmade thousands of men’s and women’s hearts beat with noble thoughts,—before the way in which he has made the little children of his land lift up their heads, and say, ‘I, too, will be like him some day!’ No, Aleko, no! What he has done lasts through the years; and the bravery of great men of whom you will read some day, such a deed for instance as that of Paul Melas13in our own time, makes all the world nobler and stronger for them, even after their names come to be forgotten!”There was silence for some minutes, then Aleko said:—“When I am twenty-one years old, and my time comes to serve in the army, if there be a war while I am a soldier, then I may be very brave and perhaps …” his eyes brightened as he spoke, “they may print it in the newspaper, and someone will read it to you, and you will say, ‘That is Aleko, I know him.’ But if there is no war, … then what can I do?”“It is of your age, my child, to think that only in fighting can one be brave; but I could fill a big book with all the different kinds of courage.”“Tell me, then! How could I be brave if there were no war?”The blind man groped for the boy’s hand and held it for a moment.“I think you are bravenow.”“But that is impossible; I have done naught.”“Suppose that next year when you finish the highest class of the Parnassos, you were to get the first prize?”“Yes,” assented Aleko, “I shall get it.”“Very well; how much is it?”“Three hundred drachmæ.”“Would that sum not be sufficient to keep you for a year at least without working, if you wished to go to a higher class in the Municipal School?”“It would be sufficient for me alone, but who would send money to my mother and the little ones, if I did not work?”“That is just what I meant; you go on working for them, instead of getting more learning for yourself, as you would like to do. Well, that is a brave deed!”“But, no,” said the boy, his face puckered with perplexity, “that is not brave. I do not like it at all!”“But you do it.”Aleko got up from his knees.“I do not do it; it does itself. How can I help it?” then, as he shouldered his box to go, he asked, “After I have read to-morrow, will you tell me about some more great men?”“I will tell you all I know; … only come!”
The next day it was four o’clock before he went up to the Kolonaki and found the blind old man seated on a chair outside his door, waiting for him patiently. The daily newspaper was read, but without the usual stopping for questions. When the reading was over Aleko opened his box and pulled out his book. Then he flung himself down and resting the book on the old man’s knees opened the tattered, scribbled-over blue paper cover.
“Master,” he said, “these are ancient Greek words; I heard a man say them to another, and I wrote them down. What do they mean?” and he read the words aloud slowly:—
ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ
“Ah, my child!” and the old man’s voice trembled a little, “they knew so much, those old forefathers of ours,—
ὡς χαρίεν ἔσθ’ ἄνθρωπος ὅταν ἄνθρωπος ᾖ
“Yes, that is from Menander. How shall I tell you? It means so many things and so many different things at different times. Sometimes, I think, it may mean simply, that it is a duty to be a man and not a brute. Let me explain ….”
“I know!” broke in Aleko, whose eyes had been fixed on the entrance of the narrow street. “You mean, to be like you and not like that fruit-seller over there who is kicking his donkey because he has laden it too heavily, and it cannot walk.” Kyr Themistocli smiled.
“Well, … yes, if you like, my boy … yes. Sometimes it means that it is a glorious thing to be all that a man can be! to be afraid of no evil talk, to hold your head very high, to remember that we have sprung from a race which has given light to all the civilized world, to become all that an ancient Greek of the best might have been. I do not mean that there were no bad men among them! Which race has been without? There were Ephialtes11… Antipater12… and many others. But to approach the noblest, … to touch the hem of their garment … who would not be proud? Sometimes, Aleko, it means that likeSocrates, one must give work, and strength, and patience, and forgiveness to others, and look for nothing in return. Sometimes it means that a man, to be a man, must give the thing that is hardest to give of all—his life even!”
“But …” began Aleko hesitatingly.
“What, my child? Ask all that you wish.”
“If a man—a great man, and a good man as you say—gives his life, then it is finished; he cannot help anyone, or be great, or strong, any more.”
“Ah, no! Many people have said that, little one, but I must make you see further. There are those who will say, if this man had not done this deed of sacrifice, if he had kept his own valuable life, he might have done many more great things later on. Ah, but they forget ….” and the blind man stretched out his arms as though appealing to an unseen audience. “They forget that all the useful and good things which he might still have done, are as nothing before the wonderful example he has given, before …. Oh, how shall I tell you, my child? … before the way in which he hasmade thousands of men’s and women’s hearts beat with noble thoughts,—before the way in which he has made the little children of his land lift up their heads, and say, ‘I, too, will be like him some day!’ No, Aleko, no! What he has done lasts through the years; and the bravery of great men of whom you will read some day, such a deed for instance as that of Paul Melas13in our own time, makes all the world nobler and stronger for them, even after their names come to be forgotten!”
There was silence for some minutes, then Aleko said:—
“When I am twenty-one years old, and my time comes to serve in the army, if there be a war while I am a soldier, then I may be very brave and perhaps …” his eyes brightened as he spoke, “they may print it in the newspaper, and someone will read it to you, and you will say, ‘That is Aleko, I know him.’ But if there is no war, … then what can I do?”
“It is of your age, my child, to think that only in fighting can one be brave; but I could fill a big book with all the different kinds of courage.”
“Tell me, then! How could I be brave if there were no war?”
The blind man groped for the boy’s hand and held it for a moment.
“I think you are bravenow.”
“But that is impossible; I have done naught.”
“Suppose that next year when you finish the highest class of the Parnassos, you were to get the first prize?”
“Yes,” assented Aleko, “I shall get it.”
“Very well; how much is it?”
“Three hundred drachmæ.”
“Would that sum not be sufficient to keep you for a year at least without working, if you wished to go to a higher class in the Municipal School?”
“It would be sufficient for me alone, but who would send money to my mother and the little ones, if I did not work?”
“That is just what I meant; you go on working for them, instead of getting more learning for yourself, as you would like to do. Well, that is a brave deed!”
“But, no,” said the boy, his face puckered with perplexity, “that is not brave. I do not like it at all!”
“But you do it.”
Aleko got up from his knees.
“I do not do it; it does itself. How can I help it?” then, as he shouldered his box to go, he asked, “After I have read to-morrow, will you tell me about some more great men?”
“I will tell you all I know; … only come!”