So the cook went out, and caught a butcher who was very careless, and demanded a pig. And the careless butcher remembered that he had killed a pig a month or two before, but he had entirely forgotten what he had done with it. At last he found it in the coal-cellar, and brought it to the cook. “It’s a bit dusty,” he remarked, “but that’ll all wash off.” “There’s something wrong with that pig,” said the cook as he prepared dinner for Eustinkides. “There’s something deuced wrong with these chops,” remarked Eustinkides as he worked his way slowly through them. However, he felt sure that he was doing the right thing, and carrying out the commands of Zeus, so he did not much mind at the time. A quarter of an hour afterwards he staggered into a Chemist’s. “Give us two-pennyworth of any quick sort of death, will you?” he gasped faintly. “What are you suffering from?” “Cursed pork,” he murmured. That was precisely it. The pig from which those chops had been taken was the very pig which the gods had such a spite against. Eustinkides was carried home to fulfil his destiny. His last words were: “Apple sauce!” So the front end of the curse run into the hinder end, and that smashed the thing up. Wherefore let us all reverence the name of Eustinkides, and refrain from soap and sin. * * * * * Melpomene fainted, and squirmed on the floor. I cannot say that I was surprised. They picked her up, and gave her a little more blood-and-seltzer, and she recovered gradually. “Tragedy _does_ take it out of one,” she explained. “There isn’t any more of the story, is there?” asked Thalia. “No, that’s all.” “Thank Zeus!” all the sisters ejaculated fervently, but in a whisper. V. POLYMNIA’S STORY: AN HOUR OF DEATH. Clio was toying with the delicate little glass from which she had been drinking. “Before we have the next story, one of you might sing something,” she said. “I shall be glad to play the accompaniment on the sackbut, which is a historical instrument. We first hear of it as being in use about the latter end of the----” “Let’s see,” said Erato, shamelessly interrupting, “I was to tell the next story, I think.” “Well, let’s have the song first.” “I like music at night,” said Erato. “At night it has a speaking voice, and one understands it better. And it would be a good introduction to my story; but it must not be a drawing-room song. They are called drawing-room songs because they are whistled in the street. No, my song must be good. There mustn’t be any-- Love me! love me forrever! Till the years shall porse awye Beside the flowin’ river You ’ear the words I sye. Love me! love me forrever! Love, though the world grows cold, Till no more we roam, and they call us ’ome. And there’s tew more lambs in the fold.