“I had no paper. What does it mean?”
The master read the sentence slowly.
“This is ancient Greek,” he said. “You have not done any yet: you could not understand it. Even next year in the higher class, you will only do Æsop’s fables, and a little Xenophon. Better leave it,” he added laughing. “Do not trouble your head! It is not for you!”
But Aleko put his book into his shoeblack box to take away with him.
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,—