A tradition rises up within me of quiet, unrumoured years, ages
before the demigods and heroes toiled at the making of Greece,
long ages before the building of the temples and sparkling palaces
of her day of glory. The land was pastoral, all over its woods
hung a stillness as of dawn and of unawakened beauty deep-breathing
in rest. Here and there little villages sent up their smoke and
a dreamy people moved about; they grew up, toiled a little at
their fields, followed their sheep and goats, they wedded and grey
age overtook them, but they never ceased to be children. They
worshiped the gods with ancient rites in little wooden temples and
knew many things which were forgotten in later years.

Near one of these shrines lived a priest, an old man whose simple
and reverend nature made him loved by all around. To him, sitting
one summer evening before his hut, came a stranger whom he invited
to share his meal. The stranger sat down and began to tell him
many wonderful things, stories of the magic of the sun and of the
bright beings who moved at the gates of the day. The old priest
grew drowsy in the warm sunlight and fell asleep. Then the stranger
who was Apollo arose and in the guise of the old priest entered
the little temple, and the people came in unto him one after the other.

Agathon, the husbandman. "Father, as I bend over the fields or
fasten up the vines, I sometimes remember how you said that the
gods can be worshiped by doing these things as by sacrifice. How
is it, father, that the pouring of cool water over roots, or training
up the branches can nourish Zeus? How can the sacrifice appear
before his throne when it is not carried up in the fire and vapour."