Ulysses found his father spading round a pear tree in the well-ordered orchard. He was so busy that he did not perceive the new arrival. Ulysses’ heart contracted at the sight. His father was clad in a dirty tunic, coarse and well mended. He had bound pieces of oxhide about hands and ankles to protect them from thorns, and he wore a cap of goatskin to shield his bald head from the cold morning air. He finally rose from his work and saw the well-dressed stranger standing before him. “Greeting to thee, old man,” said Ulysses. “What good care thou takest of thy garden. Thy trees and vines look flourishing. Only thyself, it seems to me, art neglected. What niggardly master keeps thee so poorly and allows thee to go about ragged as a beggar? Tell me, where am I? I would inquire the way to the palace of Ulysses. I wish to see the gallant hero; he was my guest upon his travels, and as my way lay past Ithaca I have laid by my ship to visit my dear friend.” “Alas, good stranger,” replied Laertes, “thou hast come too soon. Who knows what monster of the deep hath swallowed him or upon what shore his bones are bleaching. It is ten years since Troy was destroyed, and since then we have watched and waited for him daily, and I most of all. For know, that the old man who stands before thee here, dignified by sorrow, is Laertes, father of the noble Ulysses. His mother died of a broken heart, but to me the gods have denied this boon.” “Worthy king,” replied Ulysses, “weep no more. The gods have rejoicing in store for thee. Living thou shalt behold thy son.” “Alas, do not encourage false hopes. What knowest thou of him? Speak, man, if thou canst tell aught. Where hast thou seen him and how long since?” “About five years,” answered Ulysses. “But hast thou heard nothing of the rumors which are abroad? Men say that Ulysses has returned and found his house full of rude guests who squandered his fortune and wooed his wife; that he has destroyed them through craft or violence, and is once more master in his own house.” “Oh, that it were so,” lamented the old man. “Speak! Art thou a divine messenger and bringest me true tidings?” “Noble king,” now spake Ulysses with trembling voice, scarce able to control his tears, “is it not true that thou didst once give that fig tree there to thy son when he was a boy?” “Yes—” “And this splendid row of pear trees also?” “Yes—” “And that thou didst often walk among these hedges in friendly talk with him, telling him the name and use of each bush?” “Yes, yes—!” “How he will rejoice when he returns to find thee in thy old haunts.” “But ye gods! How dost thou know this? Thine eyes shine! Thou tremblest? Yes, thou art Ulysses, my son! By Jupiter, it is he!” “Yes, father, it is thy son. Oh, contain thyself. Take care, father.” Laertes now cried aloud: “If thou art really my son Ulysses returned, give me a sign, a convincing token, by which I may know thee.”