Hermann looked. He looked from the gallant tricolor to the words below, and one phrase stood forth and went to his heart. “_Mort dans la gloire pour la patrie: Robert Humain_.” Jonathan's fingers crept to David's knee and clung there. David's hand went to Jonathan's shoulder. The two old heads sagged lower and lower and closer and closer. And Terry the Cop, who had crossed the street in five leaps with the liveliest anticipation of trouble in the first degree, took one look, turned hastily away, and huskily commanded a storm-beaten sparrow in the path to move on. ORPHEUS Who Made Music in Our Square A PLAYWRIGHT named Euripides was the means of bringing us together. He sat hunched upon a bench in Our Square--not Euripides, of course, but this strange disciple of his--over a little book. When the church clock struck twelve he arose and unfolded himself to preposterous lengths. He stepped casually over a four-foot wire, strode across forbidden grass plots, and leaned pensively against the northern boundary fence. Although it was a six-foot fence, he jutted considerably above it. I glanced from him back to the bench he had just quitted. There lay his book. I picked it up. It was “The Bacchae.” In the original, if you please! Now, to find a gigantic and unexplained stranger in the metropolitan hurry and stress of Our Square perusing the classic version of the very 'Greekest and most mystic of dramas, by the spluttering ray of Jove's own lightning pent up and set to work in a two-by-one frosted globe at so many cents per kilowatt, is a startling experience for a quiet, old semi-retired pedagogue like myself. I pocketed the volume (which was in a semiuncial text like running tendrils) and sat down to consider its owner. Another of the Thunderer's bottled bolts diffused its light where he now stood, and set forth his face. It was young and comely and gallant, with a wrapt, intent melancholy; the face of a seeker, baffled but still defiant of despair. It seemed to be turned toward a star that I could not see. I sat and waited for Terry the Cop to arrive on his stated rounds. If that shrewd young guardian of the local peace did not already know about the classical stranger, he could be depended upon to find out. When his heavy tread paused before my bench I indicated the trespassing giant. “Terry,” said I, “what is that?” “That,” replied Terry promptly, “is a Nut.” “Where does it come from?” “Search me, dominie. It just kinda drops in.” “Often?” “Every night.” “Why haven't I seen it before?” “You hit the hay too early. This bird is an owl, and it don't begin to hoot till late.” “Hoot?” I repeated. Terry's symbolism sometimes tends to the obscure. “Stick around a few minutes,” advised the wise young policeman, “and you'll hear something.” “Is he an amateur astronomer?” I asked. “Or what is it he is staring at?” Terry pointed. “Look between those two roofs. See a little light, way up there?” I did. “That's it. That's the window.”