His father was Apollo, the god of music and of song, his mother the muse Calliope.
The man inside the calliope, the fireman, was too industrious.
"No need to go to the table if you don't want," Calliope told her.
When we stepped out in the snow again, Calliope's face was shining.
"Delia's out here now," Calliope called from the dark steps.
He didn't say, "Everybody give but Calliope, an' she ain't got much, so she'd ought to be let off."
"We'll set the table for seven folks," said Calliope, at my house on Thanksgiving morning.
So we six filed into the dining room to serve whomever Calliope had found "to do for."
Just before twelve Calliope caught off her apron and pulled down her sleeves.
"Then there is Calliope Marsh," I ventured, to turn my thought not less than hers.
