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THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
In Ten Volumes
Illustrated
VOLUME III
STORIES FROM THE CLASSICS
Selected & Arranged by
EVA MARCH TAPPAN
Houghton Mifflin Company
1907
[Illustration: "_It is strange that they let that dog lie there_"]
Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower
comes a pause in the days occupations, that is known as the Children's
Hour.
NOTE
All rights in stories in this volume are reserved by the holders of the
copyrights. The publishers and others named in the subjoined list are the
proprietors, either in their own right or as agents for the authors, of
the stories taken from the works enumerated, of which the ownership is
hereby acknowledged. The editor takes this opportunity to thank both
authors and publishers for the ready generosity with which they have
allowed her to include these stories in "The Children's Hour."
"The Wonder-Book," and "Tanglewood Tales," by Nathaniel Hawthorne;
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
"Old Greek Folk Stories," by Josephine Preston Peabody; published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
"The Odyssey of Homer," English prose version by George Herbert Palmer;
published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
CONTENTS
TO THE CHILDREN
STORIES FROM HERODOTUS
LADRONIUS, THE PRINCE OF THIEVES
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
ARION AND THE DOLPHIN
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
STORIES FROM LIVY
ROMULUS, FOUNDER OF ROME Alfred J. Church
HOW HORATIUS HELD THE BRIDGE Alfred J. Church
HOW CINCINNATUS SAVED ROME Alfred J. Church
THE STORY OF VIRGINIA Alfred J. Church
THE SACRIFICE OF MARCUS CURTIUS Alfred J. Church
STORIES FROM OVID
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE GOLDEN TOUCH Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS Nathaniel Hawthorne
OLD GREEK FOLK-STORIES
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE Josephine Preston Peabody
ICARUS AND DÆDALUS Josephine Preston Peabody
PHAETHON Josephine Preston Peabody
NIOBE Josephine Preston Peabody
PYRAMUS AND THISBE Josephine Preston Peabody
STORIES OF THE TROJAN WAR
THE APPLE OF DISCORD Josephine Preston Peabody
THE QUARREL BETWEEN AGAMEMNON AND ACHILLES Alfred J. Church
THE FIGHT BETWEEN PARIS AND MENELAUS Walter C. Perry
THE DUEL BETWEEN HECTOR AND AJAX Walter C. Perry
THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS AND THE BATTLE OF THE RIVER
Alfred J. Church
VULCAN MAKES ARMOR FOR ACHILLES Walter C. Perry
THE SLAYING OF HECTOR Walter C. Perry
THE FUNERAL GAMES IN HONOR OF PATROCLUS Walter C. Perry
THE WOODEN HORSE AND THE FALL OF TROY Josephine Preston Peabody
THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES
AN ADVENTURE WITH THE CYCLOPS Alfred J. Church
CIRCE'S PALACE Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE SIRENS--SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS
Translated by George Herbert Palmer
ULYSSES IN ITHACA
ULYSSES LANDS ON THE SHORE OF ITHACA
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
ULYSSES AT THE HOUSE OF THE SWINEHERD
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
THE VENGEANCE OF ULYSSES
A. HIS RECEPTION AT THE PALACE
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
B. THE TRIAL OF THE BOW
Translated by George Herbert Palmer
C. THE SLAYING OF THE SUITORS
F. S. Marvin, R. J. C. Mayor, and F. M. Stowell
D. PENELOPE RECOGNIZES ULYSSES
Translated by George Herbert Palmer
THE WANDERINGS OF THE TROJAN ÆNEAS
THE FLIGHT OF ÆNEAS FROM THE RUINS OF TROY Alfred J. Church
ÆNEAS'S ADVENTURE WITH THE HARPIES Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS IN THE LAND OF THE CYCLOPS Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS AND QUEEN DIDO Alfred J. Church
THE FUNERAL GAMES OF ANCHISES Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS'S VISIT TO THE LOWER WORLD Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS'S FIRST GREAT BATTLE WITH THE LATINS Charles Henry Hanson
ÆNEAS FINALLY CONQUERS THE LATINS Alfred J. Church
ILLUSTRATIONS
"IT IS STRANGE THAT THEY LET THAT DOG LIE THERE"
L.F. Schutzenberger
"I AM AFRAID THERE WILL NOT BE HALF ENOUGH SUPPER" Walter Crane
THEY LEAPED OUT OF THE BOTTOMLESS HOLE George Wharton Edwards
TO HIM AT LAST THE THREE GODDESSES INTRUSTED THE JUDGMENT
AND THE GOLDEN APPLE Giulio Romano
FIERCE WAS THE FIGHT ABOUT THE BODY OF PATROCLUS Giulio Romano
A GREAT IMAGE OF A HORSE Franz Cleyn
THE CYCLOPS IN HIS WRATH BRAKE OFF THE TOP OF A GREAT HILL
L.F. Schutzenberger
"DEAR SON, HAVE YOU COME HOME AT LAST?" G. Truffault
THE FLIGHT FROM TROY Franz Cleyn
THE VICTORY OF EURYALUS Franz Cleyn
TO THE CHILDREN
The greater part of this book is made up of stories from the poems of
Homer and Virgil. Homer is thought to have lived in Greece about three
thousand years ago, and yet his poems never seem old-fashioned and people
do not tire of reading them. Boys and girls almost always like them,
because they are so full of stories. If you want to read about giants or
mermaids or shipwrecks or athletic contests or enchanters or furious
battles or the capture of cities or voyages to strange countries, all you
have to do is to open the Iliad and the Odyssey, and you will find stories
on all of these subjects. Homer can describe a foot-race or the throwing
of a discus so that you hold your breath to see who will win; and he can
picture a battle so vividly that you almost try to dodge the arrows and
spears. He can make the tears come into your eyes by telling you of the
grief of the warrior's wife when he leaves her and their baby son to go to
battle; and he can almost make you shout, "Hurrah for the brave champion!"
when he tells you what wonderful deeds of prowess have been done. He can
describe a shield so minutely that you could make one like it; and he can
paint a scene of feasting so perfectly that you feel as if you had been in
the very room.
How is it that Homer makes his stories seem so real? There are several
reasons, but one of the strongest is because he tells the little things
that writers often forget to put in. When he describes the welcome given
to two strangers at the house of the lost Ulysses, by Telemachus, son of
the wanderer, he begins, "When they were come within the lofty hall, he
carried the spear to a tall pillar and set it in a well-worn rack." That
one word, "well-worn," gives us the feeling that Homer is not making up a
story, but that he has really seen the rack and noticed how it looked. The
same sentence shows why it is that people do not tire of reading Homer. It
ends, "where also stood many a spear of hardy Ulysses." This reminds the
reader that in spite of the hero's long years of absence, no one has been
allowed to remove his weapons from their old place. From this one phrase,
then, we can realize how much his wife and son love him, and how they have
mourned for him. Telemachus welcomes the strangers, but we can feel how
eager he is for them to be made comfortable as soon as possible so he can
talk of his father and learn whether they have chanced to meet him in
their wanderings. Homer's poems are full of such sentences as these; and,
no matter how many times one reads them, some thought, unnoticed before,
is ever coming to light. That is why they are always fresh and new and
interesting.
There is a tradition that Homer was blind, and that he wandered about from
one place to another, singing or reciting his poems; but this is only
tradition, and there is little hope that we shall ever be able to find out
whether it is true or not.
Homer's great poem, the Iliad, is the account of the Trojan War. His
Odyssey relates the adventures of the hero Ulysses, or Odysseus, as the
Greeks called him, in many years of wandering at the close of the war
before his enemies among the Gods would permit him to return to his home.
There were Trojan heroes, however, as well as Greek, and Æneas was one of
them. Virgil, the Latin poet, has told in the Æneid the story of his
troubles and adventures. Æneas, too, was driven over the waters, for the
Gods had told him it was the will of Jupiter, or Zeus, as it is in Greek,
for him to seek Italy and there found a city. Part of his journey is the
same as that of Ulysses. He, too, stops at the country of the one-eyed
giants and has to row as fast as he can to escape the rocks that they
throw at his vessel. He, too, hears the thunders of Mount Ætna and sees
the flashing of the fires of the volcano. His sailors point to it in fear
and whisper to one another, "That is the giant Enceladus. He rebelled
against the Gods and they piled the mountain on top of him. The fires of
Jupiter burn him, and he breathes out glowing flames. When he tosses from
one side to the other, the whole island of Sicily is shaken with a mighty
earthquake."
Virgil was no homeless singer; he was one of the great literary men of
Rome, and he read his poems aloud to the Emperor Augustus. He had a
handsome villa and a troop of friends. He enjoyed everything that was
beautiful and seemed as happy when a friend had written a good poem as if
he had composed it himself. He was never satisfied with his verse till he
had made every line as perfect as possible. When he was ill and knew that
he could not recover, he made a will, and in it he ordered the Æneid to be
burned, because it was not so polished as he wished. "I meant to spend
three years more on it," he said. Fortunately for all the people who enjoy
a great poem, the Emperor forbade that this part of the will should be
carried out. He gave the manuscript to three friends of Virgil, all of
them poets, with orders to strike out every phrase that they believed
Virgil would have struck out on revision, but not to add one word. This is
the way that the Æneid was saved for us. If it had been destroyed, we
should have lost the work of one of the best storytellers that have ever
lived.
Livy, too, was a friend of the Emperor Augustus, He lived in Rome,
enjoying his companions, the libraries of the city, and, most of all, his
independence. Even Virgil was ready to insert a few lines here and there
in a poem to gratify his friends, or to choose a subject that he knew
would please the Emperor; but Livy wrote on the subject that pleased him
and treated it just as he believed to be best. His great work was his
history, and this he begins with a little preface, as independent as it is
graceful. "Whether I shall gain any share of glory," he says, "by writing
a history of the Roman people, I do not know. The work, however, will be a
pleasure to me; and even if any fame that might otherwise be mine should
be hidden by the success of other writers, I shall console myself by
thinking of their excellence and greatness." No such thing happened,
however, for the kindly historian was so praised and his work so fully
appreciated that he said he had all the fame he could wish.
Herodotus was a Greek who liked to travel. The world was very small in his
day, for little of it was known except some of the lands bordering on the
Mediterranean. To visit Tyre, Babylon, Egypt, Palestine, and the islands
of the eastern Mediterranean, as he did, made a man a great traveler five
centuries before Christ. Herodotus enjoyed all these wanderings, but they
also "meant business" to him. Whenever he came to a place of historical
interest, he stayed awhile. He explored the country thereabouts, he
measured the important buildings, he talked with the people who knew most
about the place. Then, when he came to write of its history, he did not
write like a man who had read an article or two in an encyclopædia and was
trying to recite what he had learned, but like one who knew the place
which he was describing and liked to talk about it, and about what had
happened there. It is no wonder that his history has always been a
favorite; and to be a favorite author for twenty centuries is no small
glory.
Ovid was a Latin poet who knew how to tell a story. He could not only
invent a tale, but he could tell it so well that the reader feels as if it
must be true. His most interesting stories, however, he did not invent,
for they are a rewriting of the old mythological tales. In one respect he
is like Homer; he never forgets the little things, and he tells so many
details that we can hardly believe he is imagining them. In his story of
Baucis and Philemon, for instance, Ovid does not forget to say that the
cottage door was so low that the two gods had to stoop to pass through it;
that Baucis hurried to brighten the fire with dry leaves and bits of bark;
that one leg of the table was too short and had to be propped up with a
piece of tile. He tells us that the kindhearted couple tried to catch
their one goose so as to cook it for the supper of their guests; but that
they were so old, and the goose so nimble of wing, that he escaped them
and flew to the Gods for refuge. We are so accustomed to think of Latin as
a grave, dignified language that almost every line of Ovid's
"Metamorphoses" is a pleasant surprise. The stories that he tells, "The
Miraculous Pitcher", "The Golden Touch", "The Pomegranate Seeds", and
others, retold by Hawthorne, are favorites among the boys and girls of
to-day, and they must have been liked just as well by the Roman children.
In Rome the children read the great poets in school, and I fancy that they
were always glad when the hour came to read the "Metamorphoses."
STORIES FROM HERODOTUS
LADRONIUS, THE PRINCE OF THIEVES
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
Many hundreds of years ago, not long after the Greeks returned from the
famous siege of Troy, there lived a king of Egypt, whose name was
Rhampsinitus. So great a king was he, that he kept a small army constantly
employed in supplying the royal household with food, and another small
army was required to keep the gardens of the palace in order. And had any
one been bold enough to doubt the greatness of the king, he need only have
looked at his magnificent dress to set all doubts at rest forever. Upon
the neck of the king was a heavy necklace, glittering with priceless
jewels, and on his arms were massive bracelets of pure gold. A golden
serpent, the symbol of royalty, gleamed from his forehead, and his golden
breastplate showed the sacred beetle worked in precious stones, to protect
him from evil spirits. Whenever he appeared in the streets of his capital,
he was borne in the royal chair on the shoulders of eight of his
courtiers, while on each side walked a great noble carrying a fan, shaped
like a palm leaf, with a long, straight stem. In front marched the
bodyguard of Sardinians, men with fair skins and blue eyes, who looked
very much out of place among the swarthy Egyptians; and last of all came
the grim, black guards from Ethiopia, with their sabres flashing in the
sun. And all the people fell on their faces and kissed the dust before
their royal master. Moreover, King Rhampsinitus erected several enormous
statues of himself, as well as many fine palaces and a beautiful temple,
bearing inscriptions which related all his great and glorious deeds, so
that the people who lived after him might know how great a king he had
been.
But, in spite of all his greatness, there was one thing that prevented
King Rhampsinitus from being a happy man. He had so many treasures--masses
of silver, nuggets of gold, and bags of gold-dust, jewelry, precious
stones, and carvings in ivory--that he lived in constant fear of being
robbed. He had all his treasures packed in large jars and strong chests,
which were securely fastened, sealed up, and stowed away in a strong room
of the palace; but even then he did not feel comfortable, for might not
the palace be broken into by a clever thief and part of his treasure
stolen, while he slept? Besides, there was so much treasure packed away
already, that it was difficult to find a safe place for any more. His
anxiety made the king so unhappy, and caused him so many sleepless nights,
that he determined at last to build a large chamber of stone, with walls
too thick for any thief to break through. He sent for his chief architect,
who collected a great multitude of workmen and set to work building the
chamber without delay. Whole villages were compelled to join in the work;
even the old men and children were employed in carrying away rubbish,
bringing water and clay, and doing other work that was not too hard for
them. The stronger and more skillful workmen hewed great blocks of
granite, which were dragged to the place on wooden sledges; and, as they
had no cranes to lift the stones into their places on the walls, they were
obliged to build mounds of sand and rough bricks, and roll up each stone
gradually with wooden levers, until they got it into its proper place. It
was terribly hard work, but there were so many workmen, and the foremen
used their whips so unmercifully, that the walls rose very rapidly.
Now the architect was a cunning man, and guessed what the chamber was
intended to hold. He therefore fitted one stone in such a way that it
would slide down and leave a hole just large enough for a man to crawl
through; and yet, when you looked at the wall, there was no sign at all by
which the secret could be discovered. Nor did the architect think it
necessary to mention the secret opening to his majesty, when he showed the
chamber to him and told him that it was as strong as he could make it.
Rhampsinitus lost no time in moving his treasures into the new
treasure-chamber. The key he kept with him night and day, so that at last
he could sleep peacefully, knowing that any one who wished to pass the
solid, brass-bound door, must first prevail upon him to unlock it.
For some time all went well. The king went to the treasury every morning,
and found everything in its place. Evidently he had been too clever for
the thieves.
In the mean time the architect was lying ill in bed, and day by day he
grew weaker and weaker; until at length he knew that his end was
approaching, and, calling his two sons to his bedside, he told them of the
secret way into the treasure-chamber.
"I have little of my own to leave you, my sons," he said, "and I have but
little influence at court; but by the aid of this secret, which I devised
for your sake, you may become rich men, and hold the office of king's
treasurers for life."
The young men were delighted at his words, and so impatient were they to
enjoy their good fortune, that on the very night of their father's funeral
they stole away quietly to the place where the treasure-house stood. They
found the sliding stone exactly as their father had described it. The
younger and slimmer of the two brothers crawled through the opening and
found himself in a dark chamber, surrounded by heavy chests and jars with
sealed covers. Breaking open one of the latter, he put in his hand and
drew out a handful of gold, which sparkled and twinkled at him even in the
faint light which came through the hole in the wall. Handful after handful
he drew out and passed to his brother, at the same time filling the bags
he had brought with him, until both had as much as they could conveniently
carry. Then they replaced the stone, and returned to lay the treasure
before their mother; for in those days stealing was considered rather a
clever trick, and even the thief's mother did not scold him, so long as he
was not so clumsy as to be caught.
Imagine the consternation of King Rhampsinitus when he visited the chamber
the following morning! Everything seemed as secure as ever, and yet, when
he opened the door, there lay one of the great jars turned over and empty,
while the lid of one of the chests was broken open and part of the
contents scattered on the floor. He examined every nook and cranny of the
chamber from floor to ceiling, and there was no sign of any one's having
forced an entrance. The fastenings of the door were firm, and the lock was
one which it was perfectly impossible to pick. For greater security,
however, Rhampsinitus sent at once for a locksmith, and commanded him to
fit the door with a second lock, the key of which he kept with the other.
Notwithstanding this precaution, the treasure-chamber was robbed again on
the next night, and this time the thieves had broken open a great many of
the chests, and carried away some of the most valuable jewels. On the
following night a sentinel was posted, and still the treasury was robbed.
The sentinel vowed that he had stood with his back to the door all night,
and there is little doubt that he spoke the truth, though the poor fellow
was accused of sleeping at his post, and punished for his negligence.
Then the king took counsel of the fan-bearer on the right hand, who was
also prime minister. He made a long speech, beginning with his regret that
his majesty had not thought fit to consult him earlier, and concluding
with a learned discourse on the habits of rats.
"This is all very interesting," said Rhampsinitus, "but I do not see that
it helps very much to protect my treasure."
"I crave your majesty's pardon," the prime minister answered. "I was about
to observe that the best way to catch a rat is first to study the habits
and tastes of the rat, and next to apply the knowledge so gained in
setting a trap."
From which one may see that the prime minister was a very learned man, and
could not be expected to come to the point all at once. The king thanked
him for his valuable advice, and procured two or three powerful man-traps,
which he placed within his treasure-chamber.
Night came on, and the two thieves set to work as before, but no sooner
had the younger brother disappeared through the hole in the wall than he
began to utter loud cries of agony.
"Peace, brother! You will rouse the guard," said the elder. "What can have
befallen you?"
The other controlled himself, and said with a groan, "Ladronius, we are
ruined. I am held fast in a trap, and I think my leg is broken. O Horus,
Lord of Life, deliver me!"
With some difficulty Ladronius crawled through the opening to aid his
brother, for, though a thief, he was no coward.
"Go back, Ladronius, go back!" cried his brother. "Leave me to my fate! I
think I hear the cries of the guard. No, brother, waste no more time!" he
entreated, as Ladronius tugged in vain at the cruel teeth of the trap.
"One thing remains to be done. Cut off my head, and take it away with you,
that I may not be recognized and so we both perish! I hear the footsteps
of men approaching. Do not rob our mother of both her sons!"
And Ladronius, seeing that there was nothing else to be done, drew his
sword, cut off his brother's head, and escaped through the opening, not
forgetting to replace the stone behind him. He was only just in time, for
scarcely had he gained the cover of a clump of trees, when the soldiers of
the guard came running to the place and began to belabor the door. To
their surprise they found everything quiet and nothing displaced. They
examined the outside of the building thoroughly, and then, supposing that
they had been roused by a false alarm, they returned to the palace.
In the morning, Rhampsinitus paid his daily visit to the chamber, and
discovered the headless body in the trap. He was more puzzled than ever.
He examined the fastenings of the door and the whole of the chamber over
and over again, and no hole nor crevice could he find.
"Nevertheless," said he, "I have now bait for my trap. What can I do
better than set a thief to catch a thief?"
So he ordered the body to be hung from the outer wall of the chamber, and
placed sentinels to guard it, strictly charging them to bring before him
any one who showed pity or sorrow for the dead.
When the mother heard of her son's death and how the body had been
treated, she reproached Ladronius bitterly for his cowardice, and implored
him with many tears to bring back the body for proper burial. For the
Egyptians thought that unless a man's body were properly embalmed and
buried whole, he could have no life in the next world; so that it would be
a terrible misfortune if the head and the body were buried separately.
Ladronius attempted to comfort his mother, but did not dare to carry off
his brother's body so long as the sentinels were watching. In vain his
mother wept and entreated him, until at last her grief was turned to
anger, and she vowed that, if he did not obey her, she would go to the
king and tell him the whole story. Then Ladronius, seeing her so
determined, promised to do as she wished, and set his wits to work to
invent some means of carrying off the body without being caught by the
sentinels. At last he thought of a plan, which seemed to have some chance
of success. He hired two donkeys, and having bought some wineskins, which
were used in the place of bottles, he filled them with strong wine and
placed them on the donkeys' backs.
Thus equipped, and dressed up to look like an old merchant, he set out for
the place where his brother's body was suspended. When he drew near to the
sentinels, he secretly loosened some of the strings which fastened the
necks of the wineskins, and then whipping the donkeys and letting them run
on a little way in front, he pursued them with loud cries.
"Oh, miserable wretch that I am!" he cried, beating his head and looking
the very picture of despair. "All my good wine wasted on the ground! What
shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? Stop, most ungrateful of donkeys,
children of Set, that devour my substance and waste my wine as if it were
water! May Tefnet plague you with gadflies, and Renenutet poison the
thistles! Oh dear! oh dear! I am a ruined man."
The soldiers, supposing it to be a genuine accident, laughed loudly at the
fellow's distress, and while some chased and caught the donkeys, the
others brought bowls and pitchers and began to drink the wine, as it ran
out of the skins.
"Never mind, worthy sir!" they said to Ladronius. "The wine is serving a
very good purpose. Here is to our future friendship and your excellency's
very good health!"
Ladronius pretended to fly into a great passion, and called them thieves
and monsters of iniquity for robbing a poor man of his wine.
"Ay, laugh away!" he cried. "But a day of reckoning will come for your
wickedness. See how the law treats robbers!" And he pointed to his
brother's body hanging on the wall.
"Now, by Anubis, the fellow speaks truth," said one of the soldiers. "We
are but sorry fellows to drink away a poor man's living, and if this were
to come to the ears of the king, we should be in evil case for leaving our
duty."
The others laughed good-humoredly, as they tied up some of the skins, and
did their best to put the merchant into a good temper. Ladronius, after a
little more grumbling, appeared to be pacified, and, as a sign of
good-will, presented a wineskin to the soldier who had first spoken in his
favor.
"May you never want a young friend to speak for you in your old age," said
he, "and may you meet with no worse companions than these; for though they
seem to be somewhat headstrong, yet I perceive that I spoke hard words in
my anger."
The soldiers, who by this time had sat down on the grass and were passing
the wineskin from one to another, declared that the merchant was a
good-hearted old fellow and invited him to come and drink their health.
"Nay, my masters," said Ladronius, pretending to adjust the straps on the
donkeys' backs. "I have far to go, and I am but a little way on my
journey."
But, as they pressed him, he consented to drink one cup with them before
he went. "Though in truth," he added, "if I mistake not, the skin is
emptied already. I see that you would force me to part with another,
before I set out."
As he spoke, he produced another wineskin, and the soldiers, who were
growing merry, greeted him with a shout of delight, and insisted on his
sitting down with them. Ladronius, still declaring that he could stay only
long enough to drink one cup with them, allowed himself to be placed in
the midst, where he presently proved himself so good a companion and told
so many merry tales that the soldiers would not hear of his departure.
They drank more and more heavily, until at length a third skin was opened,
and one by one the sentinels were overpowered by the strong wine, and all
lay asleep on the ground.
By this time it had grown dark, and Ladronius, who had pretended to be as
drunk as the rest, cautiously raised his head, and finding that all the
sentinels were snoring, he took down his brother's body and carried it
off. But, before he went, he shaved the right side of the head of each of
the sentinels, to show his contempt for the king's precautions.
The king was furious when he discovered the failure of his plan and the
insult offered to his guards, all of whom were beheaded for their
disobedience to his orders. He was more determined than ever to catch the
thief, and after taking counsel once more with his prime minister, he
decided upon another plan. He caused a proclamation to be made, in which
he promised the hand of his daughter to the man whom she should consider
the cleverest and most wicked of all men. He commanded the princess to sit
on a throne in the temple of Ra, the sun-god, and to speak to all who came
to pay their homage to her, asking them what was the cleverest and most
wicked deed they had done. But secretly Rhampsinitus told her that, if any
one related the story of the robbing of the treasury, she was to seize him
by the hand, and hold him till the guards came and secured him.
The moment Ladronius heard the proclamation, he saw that it was another
trick to catch him, but he was so daring and so fond of adventure that he
could not resist the temptation to outdo the king in cunning once more. He
determined actually to put his head in the lion's mouth--in other words,
to go boldly to the temple and talk to the princess. He took with him
under his cloak the strangest of presents, an arm cut from a dead man's
body.
When he entered the temple, he beheld the princess seated on her throne,
looking very beautiful in her royal robes, with her dark curls flowing
over her shoulders, and the golden vulture of Egypt spreading his wings
over her head. She looked a little pale and weary too, for she had talked
with many scores of suitors, all of whom had told her tales which were
very much alike and nothing at all to do with her father's
treasure-chamber. And when the princess looked up and saw Ladronius
standing there, with his bold, handsome face, and resolute eyes, she had a
suspicion that this was the robber of the treasury. At the same time she
felt some pity for the young man, whom she was to be the means of
punishing for his bravery. However, she could only obey her father, and
motioning to Ladronius to approach, she addressed him with great courtesy,
saying, "You seem, sir, by your bearing, to be a man of some strength and
courage. Tell me now, what is the most wicked thing, and what the
cleverest, you ever did in your life?"
And Ladronius looked her straight in the face and answered, "Most gracious
princess, the most wicked thing I ever did in my life was to cut off my
brother's head in His Majesty's treasure-house, and the cleverest was when
I made the sentinels drunk and carried off my brother's body."
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the princess jumped up and
caught him, as she supposed, by the arm, at the same time crying out for
the guards, who were concealed behind the throne. But, to her dismay, the
arm seemed to part company with the rest of the body, and she was left
with the cloak of Ladronius and the arm of the dead man, while Ladronius
himself was out of the temple before she had recovered from her surprise;
nor could the guards find any trace of him outside.
The princess went back to her father in fear and trembling, and related
how Ladronius had escaped once more; but the king was so amazed at the
daring and skill of the young man, that he quite forgot to be angry.
The picture of the princess holding the arm that had no body attached to
it, and gazing blankly after the departing figure of Ladronius, so took
his fancy, that he lay back on his couch, and laughed till his sides
ached.
"Bast!" he cried at length. "If the youth is really as clever as this, I
would rather have him my friend than my enemy. Such a man should be
rewarded and not punished for his genius. So he made you a present of his
cloak too, did he?" And the king collapsed once more.
"And what manner of youth is he?" he asked the princess; the princess
answered, with a blush, that he looked like a brave young man.
"That I am sure he is," said the king. "I have learnt it to my cost. And
he is not ill-looking?"
"No," said the princess; she would not describe him as ill-looking.
"Ah! well," said the king dryly, "we must see whether we cannot find some
means of securing his friendship."
So King Rhampsinitus ordered another proclamation to be made, promising
that if the robber would present himself to the king and confess how he
had broken into the treasury, the king would grant him a free pardon and a
great reward beside.
Ladronius was not long in making up his mind. He knew that kings were not
always above treachery, but he had survived so many dangers that he
determined to risk this also. He arrayed himself, therefore, in his best
attire, and boldly presented himself to the king, who was delighted with
his courage and bade him relate the whole story fearlessly. And when
Rhampsinitus heard of the secret way into his treasury, he would not rest
until he had seen the sliding stone and moved it for himself. He laughed
heartily when he remembered how he had put another lock on the door, and
how he had posted a sentinel in the one place where he could see nothing
of the thieves. Then he returned to the palace, and sent for the princess,
his daughter. Presently she entered with her train of maidens, and
Ladronius was so overcome by her fresh, girlish beauty, that he could
hardly find voice enough to reply to the king's questions. The king rose
and embraced his daughter, and then, addressing Ladronius before the
assembled courtiers, he said, "Ladronius, the Egyptians are the most
cunning of all nations on the face of the earth, and you have proved
yourself more cunning than all the Egyptians. And now, after robbing me of
so many treasures, you are about to rob me of the best and most priceless
of all."
So saying, he took his daughter by the hand, and led her to Ladronius.
"Take her, my son!" he said. "A good and obedient daughter should make a
faithful and loving wife."
The princess stood with her eyes cast down, blushing very prettily, and
Ladronius looked very handsome as he knelt and kissed her hand. Then the
trumpets began to blare, the drums rattled, the cymbals clashed, and the
courtiers shouted, "Long live our gracious princess! Long live
Rhampsinitus and his son-in-law Ladronius!" The royal minstrel brought his
harp and sang a solemn chant, all about the beauty of the princess and the
bravery of Ladronius; and the maids of honor performed a graceful dance to
the music, winding wreaths of lotus flowers about the bride and
bridegroom. As the music ceased, the venerable High Priest of Ra, a tall
old man with his head clean-shaven, came forward to bless and anoint them,
and to tell how he had foreseen it all from the beginning.
So Ladronius and the beautiful princess were married, and, though it is
not in the story, there can be no doubt that they lived very happily for
the rest of their lives.
ARION AND THE DOLPHIN
Retold by G. H. Boden and W. Barrington d'Almeida
It happened once upon a time, in the olden days, that a young man,
Periander of Corinth, started from a port in the south of Greece to sail
to Miletus. Being caught in a storm, the boat was carried out of her
course as far as the island of Lesbos, where she stayed for several days,
in order that the damage caused by the storm might be repaired. In the
mean time Periander landed, and occupied himself in wandering about the
island and watching the inhabitants. In his wanderings, he came one
evening upon a group of men and women, the sight of whom made him pause
with a longing to join them. They had been working hard all day, gathering
the grapes, and pressing them in big, wooden vats, to extract the wine for
which Lesbos was famous; and now, in the beautiful autumn evening, they
were making merry after their labors.
No wonder Periander stayed to watch them, for they made a very pretty
picture,--the handsome youths, with their bronzed faces and strong, fine
limbs; the women with their gay dresses and bare feet, that seemed to have
been made for dancing; the vine-clad hill at the back, and, over it all,
the glow of the setting sun. In the centre of the dancers sat a boy,
playing upon a small lute with seven strings. To this accompaniment the
dancers chanted a song in praise of Dionysus, the god of the vine.
Gradually the music went faster and faster; and faster and faster the feet
of the dancers sped over the ground, until they were all out of breath,
and lay laughing on the grass.
Then, as the boy struck another chord, all laughter was hushed, and he
began to sing; it was a simple, plaintive little song, but there was a
magic in his voice which held the listeners spellbound. The last rays of
the setting sun played about his golden curls, and lit up his sweet,
childish face, as he sang:--
"Why should you grieve for me, my love,
When I am laid to rest?
Our lives are shaped by the gods above,
And they know best.
What though I stand on the farther shore,
Others have crossed the stream before--
Why weep in vain?
Life is but a drop in the deep,
Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
And meet again."
As the last note died away, a sigh came from the listeners; some of the
women turned away their faces, and the young men began to talk hastily, as
if to hide their emotion.
Periander waited until the group began to break up. Then he stepped
forward and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy looked up with a
smile.
"What is your name, my fair minstrel?" asked Periander.
"My name is Arion," answered the boy, as if he were used to being
questioned. "I come from Methymna beyond the hills, where I used to tend
the goats." And he told Periander that his mother and father died before
he could remember, and that he was brought up by an old goat-herd; until a
traveling minstrel, who happened one day to hear him singing on the hills,
took charge of him and taught him to play the lute.
"That was one of his own songs I was singing," said Arion. "He always
liked me to sing his songs; but, when I am a man, I shall make my own
songs, and sing them in the great cities over the sea."
"And so you shall," said Periander. "Now, listen to me, Arion! Some day,
perhaps, I also may be a great man, able to help you to become a great
singer. Remember, when you have need of a friend, that Periander of
Corinth will help you, if he can!"
And, when he departed, Periander left a sum of money with a worthy old
couple, who promised to look after the boy, and see that he wanted
nothing.
After some years, Periander became king of Corinth, and having a love of
everything beautiful, he soon gathered about him a little band of poets,
artists, and musicians. One day, when he was listening to one of the court
musicians, something--it might have been a chord in the music--reminded
him of the little Lesbian Arion. He seemed to see once more the boy with
the golden light on his curls, and the upturned faces of the peasants
grouped around him; and the very words of the song ran in his head.
"By Apollo!" he cried, so suddenly that the musician nearly fell off his
seat. "We will have the little Lesbian at court, and make a famous singer
of him. Where is Glaucus? Ho, there! Bid Glaucus attend the king!"
When Glaucus appeared, the king bade him take a boat and sail for Lesbos.
"There you will make search for one Arion, a singer," he said. "And when
you have found him, say, 'Periander of Corinth has need of his friend
Arion.' And see that you bring him safely to Corinth!"
Glaucus did as he was bidden, and in due time found Arion, now grown into
a tall, graceful youth. Arion, when he heard the message, consented to
accompany Glaucus to Corinth, where he was greeted with great kindness by
Periander. He very soon became a great favorite among the Corinthians, and
all the musicians envied him his beautiful voice and his skill in playing
on the lute. No one had such power to soothe the king in his black moods;
nor was it at court alone that his fame as a singer was known, for he was
ever ready to sing to the people, who idolized him and called him the son
of Apollo. Among other things he taught them the song and dance of the
Lesbians in honor of Dionysus and the vine; it afterwards became one of
the most famous songs of Greece.
Many years Arion stayed with Periander, who held him in high honor and
loaded him with costly presents. His fame spread as far as Italy and
Sicily, and he had many requests that he would go over and sing to the
people there. At length, he determined to make the journey, not only from
curiosity to see new countries, but also because he had heard of the songs
sung by the Sicilian shepherds, and had a great desire to study them.
Periander tried to dissuade him, but, finding him resolved, he assisted
him in his preparations, and on his departure exacted from him a promise
that he would return to Corinth.
Arion traveled about Italy and Sicily for a long time, and made a great
fortune by his singing. But growing tired at last of the wandering life,
he went to Tarentum to find a ship which would take him back to Corinth.
There were two or three ships ready to make the journey, among them one
named the Nausicaa, which was manned by a crew of Corinthians. This he
chose, being somewhat nervous about the large sum of money he was
carrying, and thinking that he could trust the Corinthians, whom he knew,
better than a crew of foreigners.
The Nausicaa was a strange-looking vessel, with a single sail, and long
oars pulled by men who sat on benches along the side. The prow, which was
carved to represent the maiden Nausicaa, stood well out of the water, and
the bulwarks descended in a graceful curve to rise again at the stern,
where the captain stood and shaped his course by means of a broad paddle,
which was hung over the side.
The voyage began happily enough, the wind being favorable, and the captain
and crew all deference and politeness. But when they were well out to sea,
the behavior of the crew changed; they answered Arion's questions with
scant politeness, and held many whispered consultations, which, from the
black glances cast at him, made him uneasy as to his safety. On the second
evening, waking out of a light sleep, he heard them conspiring to throw
him overboard and divide his wealth among them. Arion started up and
implored them not to carry out their evil purpose, offering to hand over
all his wealth, if they would spare his life. His entreaties and promises
were all in vain.
"We give you a fair choice," said the captain brutally. "Either leap into
the sea at once, or kill yourself in some other way, and we will bury you
decently on shore."
Abandoning his vain appeals for mercy, Arion begged them, as a last favor,
to let him sing once more before he died.
"That we will not refuse," the captain answered; "though, if you think to
move us by your wailing, let me tell you that you waste your breath!" In
reality, he was not displeased to have an opportunity of hearing the most
famous singer in the world.
Arion put on his sacred robes, in which he used to sing in the temple of
Apollo, and taking his lute he stepped firmly to the prow of the vessel.
There he stood, pale and calm, in the silvery light of the moon, his fair
hair playing with the wind, while the little waves lifted themselves to
look at him, and then ran playfully into the shadow of the boat, to dash
their heads against the beams and be broken into spray. The sailors were
awed in spite of themselves, as that beautiful voice rose on the breeze.
He sang the old song which he had sung in the Lesbian vineyards when
Periander saw him first. And when he came to the last lines,--
"Life is but a drop in the deep,
Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
And meet again,"
Arion leapt over the side of the vessel, just as he was.
The captain, fearing that some of the crew might be moved to lend him
assistance, gave the order to make all speed ahead. Had he waited, he
might have seen a most wonderful sight. For, as Arion fell into the sea,
the water seemed to become alive beneath him, and he felt it lifting him
up, and carrying him rapidly away from the ship. Then he discovered that
he was seated astride on a great, black fish, which was swimming very
rapidly on the top of the water, and he knew it must be a dolphin, which
had been attracted by his singing; for the dolphins, unlike most things
that live in the sea, have sharp ears, and are very fond of music. He
touched his lute, to see if the strings had suffered from the water, and,
as he did so, the great back quivered beneath him. Finding, therefore,
that the dolphin liked the music, and thinking that he owed it some return
for saving his life, Arion began to sing, and sang song after song;
whenever he stopped, the dolphin ceased from swimming, as if to inquire
the reason; and when Arion began again, the dolphin bounded through the
water with great strokes of his broad tail. A strange sight it must have
been, had there been any one there to see! But the dolphin went straight
across the open sea, where no ships were to be seen; for the sailors of
that day did not care to lose sight of the coast, but would sail all the
way round a large bay rather than straight across it. So it was that Arion
came to Tænarus in Greece, without having been seen by any man. The
dolphin took him close to the shore, where he bade it good-by, and watched
it swim away disconsolately.
From Tænarus he made his way on foot to Corinth. Periander was overjoyed
to see him once more; and when he marveled at the strange costume in which
Arion had traveled, Arion related the whole story.
Periander listened attentively, and, when it was finished, remarked
gravely, "Are you then so little satisfied with your victories over the
musicians, Arion, that you have determined to be king of story-tellers
also?"
"Does your majesty intend to throw doubt on my story?" asked Arion.
"Far be it from me!" answered Periander. "The story pleases me well, and
if you will tell me another such, I will take pains to believe that also."
"Then Zeus be my witness! I will find means to prove it," cried Arion.
"Have I not said that I doubted not?" asked Periander. "Yet I would gladly
see the proof. My crown to your lute upon the issue!"
"So be it!" said Arion. "But first I must ask your majesty that none may
speak of my return; and when the ship _Nausicaa_ comes to port, let the
seamen be dealt with as I shall appoint!"
The king assented laughing, for he deemed the tale impossible. After some
days, however, it was announced that the ship _Nausicaa_ was in the
harbor. Periander summoned the captain and all the crew to the palace, and
asked them whether they had brought any news of his minstrel Arion. The
captain replied that men said at Tarentum that Arion was still in Italy,
traveling from place to place, and received everywhere with great honor.
The rest of the sailors confirmed the story, and one of them added that
Arion was said to prefer Italy to Greece, nor had he any intention of
returning to Corinth.
At that moment a curtain was drawn and disclosed Arion, standing in his
sacred robes and holding his lute, just as they had seen him last in the
prow of the ship. The sailors, supposing that they beheld his spirit, were
seized with terror, and fell at the king's feet, confessing all their
wickedness and begging for mercy. But Periander was filled with
indignation, and spurned them angrily. Arion interposed, urging the king
to be merciful, now that the seamen had seen their wickedness, and were
willing to make restitution. Periander, however, would not hear of mercy.
"Your compassion bears witness to your noble spirit, Arion," he replied.
"But these men have planned a most cruel and cowardly murder, and cruelly
shall they suffer for it. Seize me these men, guards, and bind them!"
The guards came forward and began to lead away the trembling wretches.
"Stay!" cried Arion. "It is I who am king. Did not your majesty stake your
crown against my lute, and can the royal word be broken? Back, guards! I
claim my wager."
Periander could not refrain from laughter, but confessed himself beaten by
this piece of strategy. "The wit of Arion," he said, "is stronger than the
tears of repentance. Release the prisoners!"
"That being so," said Arion, "and seeing that I find myself more easy with
the lute, I will restore the royal crown to Periander."
So the men were set at liberty, after having restored the property of
Arion, and departed full of gratitude, invoking blessings on his head.