"I think so; though it is fair to say that his authorship of it has been questioned. At any rate, Shelley has put it into very musical English verse; and there I found my subject. The circumstances of Mercury's birth being first narrated, the newborn immortal is described as 'a babe all other babes excelling,' and also a subtle schemer and thief. He first invents the lyre, and accompanies his own impromptu song of 'plastic verse,' with it; then he is 'seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat,' and betakes himself to the Pierian mountains, where Apollo's 'immortal oxen' are feeding. Separating fifty from the herd, 'He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, But, being ever mindful of his craft,--' that is to say, his inborn guile,-- 'Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks, which seemed before, were aft: His sandals then he threw to the ocean-spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft Of tamarisk and tamarisk-like twigs,'"-- "I see," said Bergan, smiling. "The consummate little rogue!" Astra went on:-- "'And on his feet he bound these sandals light, The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, * * He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight,--' driving the stolen cattle before him, of course. And this is the moment at which I have sought to represent him." "And very perfectly you have succeeded," said Bergan, admiringly. "The arch cunning and malice of the face is simply wonderful. Indeed, it seems to me that the statue lacks but one thing." "And what is that?" said Astra, quickly; at the same time flashing a swift, searching glance at her work, as if she would fain have anticipated the criticism. "It does not tell how the story ended." "Oh!" said Astra, looking both relieved and amused. "I am glad that you did not keep me waiting so long as Michael Angelo did poor Domenico." "How long was that, pray?" "You shall hear. Domenico Ghirlandaio, a celebrated Florentine painter, having completed a picture of St. Francis, upon which he had exhausted his utmost skill, and which seemed to him to be perfect, sent for a young artist of great promise, Buonarotti by name, (who had also been his pupil), and asked for his opinion of the work. The young man contemplated it for some moments, said gravely, 'It needs but one thing,' and departed. The master remained, to study the picture anew, to pore over it hour after hour, and day after day, and rack his brain with the question what it needed. Years after, when Buonarotti had become Michael Angelo, and filled the world with his fame, Domenico sent for him to come to his death-chamber. 'What did the picture need?' he asked, faintly. 'Only speech,' replied Michael Angelo. The old master smiled,--and died."