5. Papa’s Young Protégé

“Some day after you have learned to say all of the letters,” Papa said, “I may teach you a few of the words.”

“Like what?” I was impatient to know.

Papa was thoughtful for a long time.

“Many of their words,” he said, “are associated with beautiful stories which help you to remember them. Do you know what a myth is?”

My answer pleased Papa, and made him chuckle a little. I told him that a myth was a fable, like Jack and the Beanstalk and The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe; and, Noah and the Ark, I added for good measure.

“One of the loveliest of the Greek myths,” Papa explained, “was about a beautiful young girl who had wings, like a butterfly.”

“She must have looked like an Angel,” I commented.

“I was just coming to that,” said Papa. “That’s where the Angels got their wings. It was the Greeks who gave wings to the Angels. This girl, Psyche, was the first to wear them. To the Greeks, Psyche represented the human soul. Now there is another Greek word, ‘ology,’ which, in our language, means ‘the science of,’ ‘ Papa continued. “And if you attach ‘ology’ to ‘Psyche’ you get ‘Psychology,’ the science of the soul or the mind.”

This was going to be fun! It was the first time Papa had ever played a game with me. I begged for more. But Papa thought it was enough for one day.

“Well—just one more,” he said, “and then we’ll make sure we know the alphabet. The Greek word ‘pathos’ means suffering or pain. Whenever one of our English words has ‘path’ in it, you can usually tell what it means, even if you never saw it before. Do you know what ‘pathology’ means?”

I shook my head. Then I brightened. I did know! I had tacked “ology” onto it.

“Science of pain!” I shouted, happily.

“Right!” said Papa. “‘Sym—path—y,’ same pain. You can’t really sympathize with anyone unless you, too, have been hurt the same way.”

I have gone to some length here to let you know the nature of my relation to my father. As I have said earlier, he never played ball with me, nor did he ever help me make or fly a kite; but by the time I was twelve years old I was possessed of a Greek vocabulary which many a senior in college might have envied me; and it was all acquired while playing Greek word games with Papa. Latin, too, though we both liked Greek better. Papa said the Romans were never as intelligent or as inventive as the Greeks. If this hurts anybody’s feelings, I am sorry. I cheerfully admit (if this helps, at all) that the Apostles’ Creed is much easier to recite in Latin than in English. In Latin it belongs to a remote age when Christians really did believe in the resurrection of the body.

My papa left us in 1906 to live forever in some more peaceful clime, perhaps in the Elysian Fields, for he was fond of the open country and would be much happier there than in John’s gold-paved city where the sun never sets and endless processions march to the music of heavenly choirs.

In the years which have intervened, there have been many occasions when I have wished that I might have a few words with my dear old papa; especially on the day when I received a book of mine, published in Athens and translated into the language he had loved so well.

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