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.
"Sounds like it'd go down awful easy," admitted Calliope, smiling.
When we were on the street again, Calliope looked at me with her way of shy eagerness.
"We'll set the table for seven folks," said Calliope, at my house on Thanksgiving morning.
Just before twelve Calliope caught off her apron and pulled down her sleeves.
So we six filed into the dining room to serve whomever Calliope had found "to do for."
"Then there is Calliope Marsh," I ventured, to turn my thought not less than hers.
