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Vulcan. I say, Apollo—have you seen this young bantling that Maia has just produced? What a fine child it is!—smiles at everybody, and gives plain token already that it will turn out something wonderful—quite a blessing to us all.

Apollo. A blessing, you think, eh, Vulcan? that child—who is older, in point of wickedness, than old father Iapetus himself!

Vul. Why, what harm can a baby like that do to anybody?

Ap. Just ask Neptune,—he stole his trident. Or ask Mars,—the brat slipped his sword out of its sheath as quickly as you please; to say nothing of myself, and he has gone off with my bow and arrows.

Vul. What! that infant? who can hardly stand? the one in the cradle there?

Ap. You'll soon find out for yourself, Vulcan, if he pays you a visit.

Vul. Why, he has paid me a visit, just now.

Ap. Well, have you got all your tools safe? none of them missing, is there?

Vul. (looking round). No—they are all right, Apollo.

Ap. Nay, look carefully.

Vul. By Jove! I can't see my anvil!

Ap. You'll find it somewhere in his cradle, I'll be bound.

Vul. Why, he's as handy with his fingers as if he had studied thieving before he was born!