"I had a wife," said the herdsman, "whom I loved so that when she died I vowed never to marry again. So all these years I have lived alone, and alone I shall live till the end. Yet a man cannot help wishing for a son to drive away the loneliness of the winter evenings and to be a prop to him in his old age. Probably you will laugh at me for a foolish person: for I mean to keep my vow, and yet I wish for a son."
"Those who know do not laugh at honesty," replied Hermes. "And I say to you that he who gives all freely never fails to receive. I noticed that you killed your only ox to provide meat for our meal: bring me his hide."
Hyrieus stared at him, doubtful. He feared he was being made the butt of some jest. But the stranger's open smile promised something quite different. Much wondering, he went out into the darkness and after a while returned with the hide of the ox which he had sacrificed to hospitality. He did not regret the act, but he could not help thinking of the morrow as he handled the still warm skin of this faithful companion and servant. What would he do without its aid? And what did this mysterious person mean by his odd request? He spoke as a man having authority, however, and there was nothing for it save to obey and see what might befall.
Hermes took the hide, and bade him fetch a spade. The three mysterious visitors went out into the night. Hyrieus, peering out after them, saw them bury the ox skin in front of his house, with strange and secret
ceremonies. Without knowing why, he trembled. He trembled still more when they returned, for the strangers seemed to have become suddenly majestic, awe-inspiring.
The bearded one, who had not spoken hitherto, looked solemnly upon the herdsman. Instinctively the Bœotian fell into an attitude of worship.
"You shall have your wish," announced this one, in tones that filled the low-raftered room like a mighty wind. "Next spring you shall have a son—and such a son as mortal never yet had."
The three retired for the night. When Hyrieus woke, as usual, with the dawn, they had disappeared. He went about his labors, sorely increased by the loss of his ox, pondering deeply on what had occurred. Many a time he looked at the little patch of freshly-turned earth, but something forbade him to investigate. And then the fall rains came and obliterated the spot; and the winter snows covered all; and everything was as it had been, save for the insistent recollection in the farmer's heart. Many times he laughed at his folly; yet in the still evenings as he sat before his fire, he knew that he expected—something.
Winter passed at length. Spring painted the hills with yellow and white and pink blossoms. And its soft unfolding promises seemed to reinforce that secret hope, which defied reason, and which persisted in the heart of Hyrieus. As he sat outdoors in the long twilight evenings, instead of crouching close to his scanty fire, every sound of the reawakening earth had a new meaning. Even the still white calm of
snow-capped Parnassus, far to the west, seemed to presage some great happening. For the first time since his youth he really heard the shrill voices of the frogs in the neighboring marsh: it was as if even these tiny creatures were repeating the promise made him by his mysterious visitors. And then he would smile sadly at his senile credulity and, remembering the reality of the morrow's hard work, would plod stiffly into his solitary hut and seek on his pallet bed that dream land where all things are possible.