To such a bribe Dryas consented, squatting down in a chubby heap beside his pebbles.
“It’s about baby Hermes,” Theria began. “First, he was born, and when he was three hours old he got out of his cradle and walked straight up Parnassos Mountain—to the very top.”
“He couldn’t,” objected her auditor.
“But god-legs is strong.”
“Presè’s got a baby three months old and it can’t walk yet. Its worse’n a puppy.”
“Presè’s a slave. Slave legs is different.”
“But even a god, he couldn’t do it.”
And though Theria knew her story was correct, she did not press the point.
“And little Hermes found some cows,” she went on. “Oh, beautiful wild cows with sharpy-sharp horns. All the cows were white and were eating white flowers that grow in the meadows up against the sky.”
“Clouds?” suggested Dryas.