“What is that statue in the Zappion Gardens, of the man who stands at the woman’s knee; she who is putting a crown of leaves on his head?”
Kyr Themistocli put his hand to his forehead in a bewildered fashion.
“At the Zappion? A crown of leaves? Oh, I see; you mean Byron. Well, he was a great poet—a stranger—and because he left his own country and came and fought for us against the Turks, and helped us, and sang about us, and loved us, the woman, who means Greece, is crowning him with laurels.”
“Is it like when you take your hat off—to the flag—to show respect?”
“Well, in a way, perhaps,” said the old man smiling.
“Is he dead now, that poet?”
“Yes.”
Aleko thought for a moment.
“I will fight for his country when I grow up if they want me.”
Then he ran very fast because he was afraid he would be late for school. In winter the hours were from seven to nine in the evening, but in summer they were from eight to ten, for the members of the Parnassos who arranged all about the night school, knew that the little shoeblacks and newspaper boys could find work in the streets much later, now that the days were long and people dined at such late hours.