Next comes the nurse Eurycleia, who recognizes him by a scar inflicted by the white tusk of a boar whom he hunted on Parnassus's heights; then his faithful followers; last of all, and slowly and with difficulty, the wife who had so yearned for him. Her impetuous son could not understand her tardiness. Vehemently he chid her: "Mother, unfeeling mother, how canst thou remain aloof, how keep from taking at my father's side thy place to talk with him and question him? Mother, thy heart is harder than a stone." But she only sat opposite to Ulysses and gazed and gazed and wondered. Ulysses himself, at last, in despair at her impenetrable silence, exclaimed, "An iron heart is hers." But it was only that she could not believe. It seemed so incredible to her that the long waiting should be over; that the desire of her heart should really be fulfilled; that this man before her should be indeed the husband, the long-lost husband, and not a mocking dream. But when at last it dawned upon her, when he gave her the token of the mystery known only to him and to her, then indeed the ice of incredulity melted from her heart, and her knees faltered and the tears streamed from her eyes, "and she rose and ran to him and flung her arm about his neck and kissed his brow, and he, too, wept as in his arms he held his dearly loved and faithful wife." "As welcome as the land to those who swim the deep, tossed by the billow and the blast, and few are those who from the hoary ocean reach the shore, their limbs all crested with the brine, these gladly climb the sea-beach and are safe--so welcome was her husband to her eyes, nor would her fair white arms release his neck." And so with the words uttered by the shade of Agamemnon we may fitly close this retrospect of the poem: "Son of Laertes, fortunate and wise, Ulysses! thou by feats of eminent might And valor dost possess thy wife again. And nobly minded is thy blameless queen, The daughter of Icarius, faithfully Remembering him to whom she gave her troth While yet a virgin. Never shall the fame Of his great valor perish, and the gods Themselves shall frame, for those who dwell on earth, Sweet strains in praise of sage Penelope." Well might the rhapsodes in the olden days, clad in embroidered robes, with golden wreaths about their brows, recite such verses as these to the assembled thousands and ten thousands. Well might the Hellenic race treasure these records of filial loyalty, of maiden purity, of wifely tenderness and fidelity, of bravery, and of intelligence. And well may we, too, desire that this golden stream flowing down to us from ancient Greece shall enter the current of our children's lives to broaden and enrich them.