CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIFTH.

At this declaration, which was so awe-inspiring, I shuddered in terror, and commenced to scrutinize the crone more narrowly. “Come now,” said OEnothea, “obey my orders,” and, carefully wiping her hands, she bent over the cot and kissed me, once, twice! On the middle of the altar OEnothea placed an old table, upon which she heaped live coals, then with melted pitch she repaired a goblet which had become cracked through age. Next she replaced, in the smoke-stained wall, a peg which had come out when she took down the wooden goblet. Then, having donned a mantle, in the shape of a piece of square-cut cloth, she set a huge kettle upon the hearth and at the same time speared with a fork a cloth hanging upon the meathooks, and lifted it down. It contained some beans which had been laid away for future use, and a very small and stale piece of pig’s cheek, scored with a thousand slashes. When she had untied the string which fastened the cloth, she poured some of the beans upon the table and ordered me to shell them quickly and carefully. I obey her mandate and with careful fingers separate the beans from the filthy pods which contain them; but she, accusing my clumsiness, hastily snatched them and, skillfully tearing off the pods with her teeth, spat them upon the ground, where they looked like dead flies. I wondered, then, at the ingenuity of poverty and its expedients for emergency. (So ardent a follower of this virtue did the priestess seem that it was reflected in everything around her. Her dwelling, in particular, was a very shrine of poverty.)

      No Indian ivory set in gold gleamed here,
      No trodden marble glistened here; no earth
      Mocked for its gifts; but Ceres’ festive grove:
      With willow wickerwork ‘twas set around,
      New cups of clay by revolutions shaped
      Of lowly wheel.  For honey soft, a bowl;
      Platters of green bark wickerwork, a jar
      Stained by the lifeblood of the God of Wine;
      The walls around with chaff and spattered clay
      Were covered.  Hanging from protruding nails
      Were slender stalks of the green rush; and then
      Suspended from the smoky beam, the stores
      Of this poor cottage.  Service berries soft,
      Entwined in fragrant wreaths hung down,
      Dried savory and raisins by the bunch.
      An hostess here like she on Attic soil,
      Of Hecate’s pure worship worthy she!
      Whose fame Kallimachos so grandly sang
      ‘Twill live forever through the speaking years.