I can tell you, Cock, that I will never forget that vision. The dream as it went left so much honey in my eyes that I can hardly lift my lids, for it drags them down again to sleep. You know the tickling you get if you twirl a feather in your ear; well, that is just the sensation I had from my dream.

By Herakles, this is a marvellous love that you declare for a dream! They say dreams are winged and their flight is bounded by sleep, but this one has leaped beyond the mark and lingers in open eyes, seeming so honey-sweet and vivid. I should really like to hear what it was like, since you long for it so.

I am ready to tell you, for it is a pleasure to me to recall and describe something of it. But when will you, Pythagoras, tell me about your transformations?

When you, Mikyllos, stop dreaming and rub the honey from your eyelids. But tell me this first, whether your dream was sent through the gates of ivory or the gates of horn.

Through neither, Pythagoras.

But Homer tells of these two only.

Don't talk to me about that fool of a poet, who knew nothing about dreams. Perhaps poor dreams such as he used to see-not very clearly, either, for he was blind-came through such gates; but mine, the most beautiful, came through golden gates, and itself was golden and clothed all in gold, and brought heaps of gold with it.

Stop your tale of gold, you Midas!

I saw heaps of gold, Pythagorasheaps. You can't think how beautiful it was or how radiantly it shone! What is it Pindar says in praise of it? Remind me, if you know. He says water is best, and then goes on to speak of gold, placing a eulogy of it very properly at the very beginning of the book, in the most beautiful of all his odes.

This is probably what you want: "Best of all things is water, but gold-like a flaming fire by night it blazes out from all the haughty store of wealth."

The very thing, by Zeus! Pindar writes this praise of gold just as if he had seen my dream. If you wish to hear what it was like, listen, most sagacious Cock. You know I did not dine at home yesterday. Eukrates the millionaire fell in with me in the market-place and bade me come to his house after my bath in time for dinner.

I know it very well, for I went hungry all day until you came home late in the evening, rather drunk, and brought me those five beans— not a very ample meal for a cock who has been an athlete in his day and competed at Olympia, not without distinction.

Well, when I had come home from dinner I went to sleep as soon as I had given you the beans; and then, through the ambrosial night, as Homer says, a really heavenly dream appeared.

I thought I should bore you if I described that, too; but since you wish it, I will certainly tell it. Never in all my life before, Pythagoras, had I dined with a rich man, when by some good-fortune I chanced upon Eukrates yesterday. I addressed him as usual, with "Good-morning, sir," and said no more lest I should mortify him by accompanying him in my shabby clothes. But he said, “Mikyllos, I am celebrating my daughter's birthday to-day, and I have asked a good many friends. Now I hear that one of them is poorly and not able to dine with me, so come yourself in his place after your bath, unless, indeed, the man I invited sends word finally that he will come. At present he is undecided." When I heard this I made him a low bow and went off praying to all the gods to send a fever of some sort, or a pleurisy, or the gout, to that invalid whose successor and substitute I had been asked to be. The interval before bathing seemed ages long, because I was forever looking to see what o'clock it was and at what hour one ought to have had his bath. And as soon as the time came I scrubbed myself in a hurry, and went off dressed with great propriety, having so adjusted my tunic that the cleaner part might be thrown over my shoulder.

At the door I found a crowd, and among them, carried by four men in a litter, the man in whose stead I was to have dined, the one that was said to be ill, and indeed he was evidently in a bad way, for he groaned a little and had a slight cough, and cleared his throat from far down and with difficulty. He was of a uniform yellow and bloated, and nearly sixty years old. He was said to be a philosopher of the school that talks nonsense to boys. At all events, he wore a goat-like beard of an absurd length; and when Archibios, the doctor, blamed him for having come in this condition, he said, "Duty must be done, above all by a philosopher, even though a thousand diseases stand in the way; for Eukrates would think I held him lightly.” "Not at all," said I. "On the contrary, he will commend you if you prefer dying at home by yourself to coughing up your soul at the dinner." To preserve his dignity he pretended that he had not heard the scoff. Presently Eukrates appeared from the bath, and when he saw Thesmopolis- for that was the philosopher's name "Professor," said he, “it is kind of you to come to me. Still you would have lost nothing if you had stayed away, for your dinner would have been sent to you course by course." As he spoke he entered the house, leading Thesmopolis by the hand, who was also supported by his servants.