Thompson's great catch-all for animal gratitude carries fifteen parsed rows; exactly one resolves to served text, and it is the Melampus page — worth filing twice, because gratitude is the engine of the whole chapter. The kindness is small and specific: his servants kill the oak-lair's snakes, and Melampus "gathered wood and burnt the reptiles, and reared the young ones" [The Library (Bibliotheca), BOOK I, ch. IX]. The repayment is not an object but a sense — ears cleaned, animal speech opened — and the chapter pays it out in installments. Overheard worms warn him out of a collapsing cell; Phylacus, marveling, "released him and invited him to say how his son Iphiclus might get children"; a summoned vulture alone remembers the day Phylacus "laid down the knife, still bloody, beside Iphiclus", which yields the cure [ibid.]. The kine follow the cure, the bride follows the kine, and a share of a kingdom follows later: one reared brood of snakes quietly reorganizes three families' fortunes. Fourteen more rows of grateful beasts — Thompson's apparatus at its widest — wait unwired; today the Greek snakes carry the whole address, and they carry it easily.