ered to the chief: "He is a bard himself, and we made him
promise to sing to us. I brought his harp with me that he might cheer up
our bivouac. Pray, do you ask him."

The old chief needed no persuasion; and the eyes of the whole force
brightened as they found they had a minstrel "of their own" now, when
the old man pressed the young Ionian courteously to let them hear him:
"I told you, sir, that we had no Muses of our own; but we welcome all
the more those who come to us from over seas."

Homer smiled; for it was Homer whom he spoke to,--Homer still in the
freshness of his unblinded youth. He took the harp which the young
Philistine handed to him, thrummed upon its chords, and as he tuned them
said: "I have no harp of olive-wood; we cut this out, it was years ago,
from an old oleander in the marshes behind Colophon. What will you hear,
gentlemen?"

"The poet chooses for himself," said the courtly old captain.

"Let me sing you, then, of _the Olive Harp_"; and he struck the chords
in a gentle, quieting harmony, which attuned itself to his own spirit,
pleased as he was to find music and harmony and the olive of peace in
the midst of the rough bivouac, where he had come up to look for war.
But he was destined to be disappointed. Just as his prelude closed, one
of the young soldiers turned upon his elbow, and whispered
contemptuously to his neighbor: "Always _olives_, always _peace_: that's
all your music's good for!"

The boy spoke too loud, and Homer caught the discontented tone and words
with an ear quicker than the speaker had given him credit for. He ended
the prelude with a sudden crash on the strings, and said shortly, "And
what is better to sing of than the olive?"

The more courteous Philistines looked sternly on the young soldier; but
he had gone too far to be frightened, and he flashed back: "War is
better. My broadsword is better. If I could sing, I would sing to your
Ares; we call him Mars!"

Homer smiled gravely. "Let it be so," said he; and, in a lower tone, to
the captain, who was troubled at the breach of courtesy, he added, "Let
the boy see what war and Mars are for."

He struck another prelude and began. Then was it that Homer composed his
"Hymn to Mars." In wild measure, and impetuous, he swept along through
the list of Mars's titles and attributes; then his key changed, and his
hearers listened more intently, more solemnly, as in a graver strain,
with slower music, and an almost awed dignity o