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a tree and just thinking.”
    *
    After the works of Homer, Father Stephen introduced us to the teachings of Socrates, as related by his former student Plato, which then led on to Plato’s own philosophies. I reflected in later years that a great part of the reason he was so drawn to the study of Greek was that he was very much a devotee of Socrates from ancient times. Sometimes, I am even tempted to think—knowing full well I sin most mightily in allowing myself such thoughts—that Father Stephen would have been hard pressed to say whose teachings were greater: Socrates or Jesus Christ. Though Father Stephen’s priestly calling would no doubt win out in the end, to declare the teachings of the Son of God as being the greater.
    Father Stephen was a wonderful teacher who forever thought of different ways to aid us four on the paths of learning. On many an occasion he wrote a brief play that all of us would then act out in order to help us to grasp some of the reasonings of Plato and Socrates…
    *
    Within a dark wood-panel chamber, bright sunlight beams through a high lattice window, showering diamond shapes over the forms of four children. Sitting together on a low bench, the two boys and two girls fidget, holding lutes upon their laps. From a stool near the hearth, where a low fire burns, Father Stephen arises, straightening the folds of his grey cassock.
    “So, my young players, we all know well our parts. Shall we make a start, do you think?”
    The children look at one another, then back at the priest; one boy gives him a quick nod. Gazing at them with a serious glint, Father Stephen lifts his chin.
    “All right then, I shall leave the chamber. But when I return, remember ’tis not Father Stephen you see, but Socrates from times long gone.”
    The priest strides over to the nearby door. Without a backward glance, he closes the door behind him. The room now emptied of Father Stephen’s presence, the children sneak glances at one another, straightening their forms. George begins to strum a song on his lute, humming under-breath. Tom lays a hand on the chords of his cousin’s instrument.
    “No more, coz. He’s coming back.”
    Pushing open the door, Father Stephen enters the room, but his stance and walk has changed, and gives an air of a more ancient man. He comes and sits amongst the children, picking up a spare lute from the floor and begins to tune it.
    George clears his throat.
    “Good morrow, Grandfather.”
    Mary and Anne nudge one another and laugh, Mary biting her lower lip when her giggles threaten to become uncontrollable. With a quick frown at the girls, Tom, sitting beside Father Stephen, strikes up a more serious pose, peering at the man in a puzzled fashion.
    Appearing to notice, Father Stephen gives Tom a broad smile.
    “My name is Socrates. Could you give me the pleasure, young man, of knowing yours?”
    George nudges Tom in the ribs, and Tom squirms with embarrassment, but he still manages to sputter out: “Phaidros, sir.”
    “Oh, please, please, Phaidros! Not Sir! We are all students here. I am here to learn. Just as you are here to learn.”
    Tom looks more boldly at his teacher.
    “But, you are a grown man, master! Why do you come here, Socrates?”
    “Oh, because of a dream, Phaidros.”
    “A dream?” The boy speaks as if bewildered.
    The priest plays three notes upon his lute before looking again at Tom.
    “Yes, I dreamt that my God came to me and told me to make music. But I do not know if the God meant me to make music with my soul or my hands. So here I am!”
    The girls giggle again; Tom ignores them and pretends to be confused.
    “How can you make music with your soul, Socrates?”
    “What a good question, my boy, and I have always thirsted for knowledge and answers to good questions. But I tell you, Phaidros, the longer I have lived, the more I have realised simply this: the more I have sought to know, the less I am able to answer. Nonetheless, Phaidros, let me try for you an