Well, haven’t you heard him speaking? He already has a glib and fluent tongue. And he wants to be our message boy. And yesterday he challenged Eros to wrestle with him, and in no time at all took his feet from under him somehow and had him on the ground. When they were still congratulating him and Aphrodite gave him a hug for winning, he stole her girdle, and, before Zeus had stopped laughing, his sceptre into the bargain; and if his thunderbolt hadn’t been too heavy and scorching hot, he’d have had that too and nobody any the wiser.

He picked up a dead tortoise somewhere, and made himself a musical instrument out of it; he’s fitted arms to it, with a yoke across, then driven in pegs, fitted a bridge, and stretched seven strings across; he plays a dainty melody with it, Hephaestus, well in tune, so that even I am green with envy for all my years of practice on the harp. Even at night, Maia was telling me, he wouldn’t stay in heaven, but would go all the way down to Hades out of curiosity—to steal something from there, I’ve no doubt. He has wings on his feet, and has had someone make him a rod with marvellous powers, and with it leads down the souls of the dead.

I gave him that for a toy.

Well, he’s paid you back for that good and proper—the tongs, you know.

Thanks for reminding me. I’ll go and get them back, if they’re to be found, as you say, in his baby-clothes.