have pity and restore Cupid to her. Venus gave her many tasks to
perform. Although Psyche was often very tired, she knew she deserved
to work and suffer, because of her lack of faith in Cupid. Finally,
Venus sent her down to Hades, where King Pluto and Queen Persephone
reign, to bring back a box of beauty ointment.
The way was long and rough and dark. But Psyche persevered, and
finally reached the river Styx. She called to the grim boatman,
Charon, to row her across. He obeyed, and rowed her over the black
river in his dingy boat, and Persephone gave her the box. Psyche was
frightened by the terrible cries and the wretched dark faces of the
souls in Hades. But she thought only of Love. Then all the monsters
ceased to annoy her, and she came safely to earth again.
Alas, when her work was so bravely done, why did she yield to
temptation? She thought Love would think more of her if she were
fairer, and she opened the box to take just a little of the precious
beauty ointment. There was nothing in the box but a bad dream, which
immediately seized her, and she fell down in sleep.
Cupid loved and was sorry for Psyche, and he feared that some
misfortune had befallen her; so he spread his wings and flew in search
of the soul he loved. He soon found her asleep by the roadside. He
awoke her, and together they went to Olympus, where Venus forgave
them, and permitted them to be married.
Now Love and the Soul belong together, and although the way is dark
and lonely and difficult, you must believe that
"Love leads the soul to its perfection."
LONGING.
Of all the myriad moods of mind
That through the soul come thronging
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,
So beautiful as Longing?
The thing we long for, that we are
For one transcendent moment,
Before the Present poor and bare
Can make its sneering comment.
Still, through our paltry stir and strife,
Glows down the wished Ideal,
And Longing molds in clay what Life
Carves in the marble Real:
To let the new life in, we know,
Desire must ope the portal;
Perhaps the longing to be so
Helps make the soul immortal.
Ah! let us hope that to our praise
Good God not only reckons
The moments when we tread His ways,
But when the spirit beckons,
That some slight good is also wrought
Beyond self-satisfaction,
When we are simply good in thought,
Howe'er we fail in action.
--James Russell Lowell.
[Illustration: Cupid and Psyche.
W. A. Bouguereau (_modern_).]
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.
In the old Roman days, the people, in the month of February, had a
great feast, when they purified their homes and made sacrifices to the
gods. After this, the young people had games, and one of them was like
that of our valentine box. In this box were placed the names of
maidens. The young men drew out the names, and each must be a true and
loyal knight, for the following year, to the young woman whose name he
drew.
The name "valentine" comes from a kind Christian monk, who was the
friend of youth. We send valentines to those we love, and you know
there are emblems of love and fidelity upon these pretty gifts. Here
are the cooing doves, the graceful swan, the rose, and the myrtle--all
sacred to Venus, goddess of love and beauty. Cupid, her mischievous
son, has his bow and quiver filled with arrows with which to pierce
the hearts of the young. Here is the butterfly, the emblem of Psyche,
the Soul, whom Love chose to be his wife.
From the story of Cupid and Psyche we learn how love ennobles the
soul, purifying it of doubt, and raising it to perfect faith. For this
reason, we may well celebrate the day of kind St. Valentine, by
sending words of love and gifts of affection to our friends, in the
form of dainty valentines.
WHAT MARCH DOES.
In the dark silence of her chamber low
March works sweeter things than mortals know.
Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care,
Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear;
She sews the seams in violet's queer hood,
And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood.
Out of a bit of sky's delicious blue
She fashions hyacinths, and harebells too;
And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair,
Or spins a gown for a daffodil to wear.
She pulls the cover from the crocus beds
And bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads.
"Come, early risers; come, anemone,
My pale windflower, awake, awake," calls she.
"The world expects you, and your lovers wait
To give you welcome at Spring's open gate."
She marshals the close armies of the grass,
And polishes their green blades as they pass
And all the blossoms of the fruit trees sweet
Are piled in rosy shells about her feet.
Within her great alembic she distills
The dainty odor which each flower fills.
Nor does she ever give to mignonette
The perfume that belongs to violet.
Nature does well whatever task she tries
Because _obedient_,--there the secret lies.
--May Riley Smith.
PHAËTHON.
Phaëthon was the son of Apollo. One day he approached the palace of
his father and begged a favor. Apollo was pleased with his youthful
grace and beauty, and promised to grant his desire. Phaëthon then
boldly asked the great god of the sun for permission to drive his
horses for a single day.
Then did Apollo regret his hasty promise, and beg Phaëthon to ask
anything but that--because it is so dangerous to drive those fiery
steeds.
"You know not what you ask, my son, I am the only one who can drive
the chariot of the sun safely through the heavens. Even Jupiter
himself would not attempt so dangerous a task."
But Phaëthon was bold and proud, and finally Apollo yielded. The
horses were harnessed, the gates unbarred, Phaëthon seized the reins,
and away they flew! The horses knew that a weak hand held them, but
they were going uphill and kept well in the course. So Phaëthon grew
careless, and when the zenith was reached the horses paid no heed to
his guidance.
Exulting in their freedom from Apollo's masterful hand, they galloped
far from the path, now on this side, now on that.
[Illustration: Phaëthon driving Apollo's Chariot.
Max F. Klepper (_modern_).]
Sometimes they came so near the earth that the leaves and grass
withered, the crops were all destroyed, and the streams disappeared.
Then they turned so far away that snow fell, and the people shivered
and suffered from the cold.
All the people on earth were afraid, and even the gods on high Olympus
wondered what was amiss with Apollo, that his horses were so unruly.
Finally Jupiter looked over the heavens, and, seeing the reckless
Phaëthon, hurled a thunderbolt at him, and he fell headlong into the
river Po.
Hither every day came his sisters, the Heliades, wringing their hands
and weeping for their beloved brother. At length the gods changed them
into poplar trees, and their tears into amber.
Phaëthon's dearest friend, Cygnus, was continually plunging into the
river, hoping to find the body of the rash youth, and he was changed
into a swan. This bird now sails mournfully upon the waters,
frequently dipping his head below the surface, as if still searching
for his friend Phaëthon.
WINGS.
Wings that flutter in sunny air;
Wings that dive and dip and dare;
Wings of the humming bird flashing by;
Wings of the lark in the purple sky;
Wings of the eagle aloft, aloof;
Wings of the pigeon upon the roof;
Wings of the storm bird swift and free,
With wild winds sweeping across the sea:
Often and often a voice in me sings,--
O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!
O, to winnow the air with wings;
O, to float far above hurtful things--
Things that weary and wear and fret;
Deep in the azure to fly and forget;
To touch in a moment the mountain's crest,
Or haste to the valley for home and rest;
To rock with the pine tree as wild birds may;
To follow the sailor a summer's day:
Over and over a voice in me sings,--
O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!
Softly responsive a voice in me sings,--
Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings;
Soon as the glass a second can count,
Into the heavens thy heart may mount;
Hope may fly to the topmost peak;
Love its nest in the vale may seek;
Outspeeding the sailor, Faith's pinions may
Touch the ends of the earth in a summer's day.
Softly responsive a voice in me sings,--
Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings.
--Mary F. Butts.
[Illustration: Winged Mercury.
_National Museum, Florence._]
[Illustration: Mercury in his Chariot.
Raphael (_Rome_).]
MERCURY.
Mercury, or Hermes, is a very interesting god. He is the messenger of
Jupiter, and has wings on his cap and sandals. He flies swifter than
the wind and wears a cloak which makes him invisible. As the wind
carries things away, Mercury is sometimes called the captain of
thieves, and he likes to play tricks.
While walking along a river bank one day, he carelessly hit a tortoise
shell, and it gave forth a musical sound. Mercury at once fashioned it
into a lyre. This musical instrument he gave to his brother Apollo,
who was so delighted with it that he gave Mercury a wonderful wand
called the caduceus. When animals or people quarrel, this wand will
make them friends again. One day Mercury threw it upon the ground
where two snakes were fighting, and at once they twined lovingly about
it, and Mercury kept them there as an emblem of the power of the wand.
The caduceus represents the gift of language; for when men quarrel and
are angry, if they use this wand and talk with each other, their
differences will soon disappear and they will become friends.
You will recognize the statues of Mercury by his caduceus and by his
winged cap and sandals. He is sometimes represented as standing upon a
tongue; for he gave to man the gift of speech, and is the god of
eloquence. Mercury is also the god of commerce; for if men could not
speak and converse with one another, there would be no commerce in the
world.
THE FINDING OF THE LYRE.
There lay upon the ocean's shore
What once a tortoise served to cover.
A year and more, with rush and roar,
The surf had rolled it over,
Had played with it and flung it by,
As wind and weather might decide it,
Then tossed it high where sand drifts dry
Cheap burial might provide it.
It rested there to bleach or tan,
The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;
With many a ban the fisherman
Had stumbled o'er and spurned it;
And there the fisher girl would stay,
Conjecturing with her brother
How in their play the poor estray
Might serve some use or other.
So there it lay, through wet and dry,
As empty as the last new sonnet,
Till by and by came Mercury,
And, having mused upon it,
"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things
In shape, material, and dimensions!
Give it but strings, and lo, it sings,
A wonderful invention!"
So said, so done; the chords he strained,
And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,
The shell disdained a soul had gained,
The lyre had been discovered.
O empty world that round us lies,
Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's,
In thee what songs should waken!
--James Russell Lowell.
[Illustration: Storm King.
Le Sénéschal (_modern_).
Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.]
ÆOLUS.
All nature is musical. If you will listen, you can hear the leaves
singing sweet songs, and the reeds along the river banks join in with
their voices. The brooks and the rivers sing and laugh; they are so
happy shining in the golden sun, or hiding in the cool shade.
The fairies have the flowers for their musical bells, and the grasses
sing softly to the dear mother earth. But the sweetest songs are the
carols of the merry birds, and the songs of happy children.
The winds are often noisy, but sometimes they seem to sing a musical
song. Some instruments in the orchestra, the flute and the horn, are
called wind instruments. There is a simple stringed instrument, called
the æolian harp. When the winds blow upon its sensitive, delicate
strings, musical sounds are heard, and we say that Æolus, king of the
winds, is playing upon his harp.
Long ago, the Lipari Islands, off the coast of Italy, were called the
Æolian Islands. Here in a rocky cave lived Æolus and the winds, who
were the children of Aurora and Æolus. All the winds were noisy and
fond of strife except Zephyrus, the youngest. Æolus kept them fastened
in the rocky cave, generally letting out but one at a time. They were
always rushing to the iron doors, quarreling and fighting among
themselves, and begging Æolus to let them out of the narrow cave.
Whenever one of the gods wished a storm at sea, he would ask Æolus to
release his sons; they would rush out of the cave, sweeping over the
seas in a whirlwind, raising the waves mountain high. Then the ships
were in great danger from wave and rock, as the winds rolled the
billows over the ships, or drove the vessels against the sharp cliffs.
Vergil, the great Latin poet, thus describes a storm raised by Æolus,
at the request of Juno,--
"Æolus thus in reply: 'It is yours, O queen, to determine
What you may wish to accomplish; to do your command is my
duty;
You have procured me my place, my scepter, and Jupiter's favor;
You, too, the privilege grant to recline with the gods at their
banquet;
Over the tempest and storm, it is you who have made me the ruler.'
Turning, he struck with his spear the side of the cavernous mountain,
And, as in martial array, wherever an egress is granted,
Eagerly pour forth the winds, and sweep o'er the earth in a
whirlwind;
Now on the sea have they fallen, and stirred to its deepest
foundations;
Eastward and southward together, and blasts of the gusty southwest
wind
Lash it all into a fury, and roll to the shore the vast billows.
Now come the cries of the men, and the shrieks of the wind through
the rigging;
Then on a sudden collecting, the clouds, from the sight of the
Trojans
Shut out the sky and the day, o'er the sea broods the darkness of
midnight;
Thunder resounds through the sky, the air seems ablaze with the
lightning;
Everything seems to portend immediate death to the heroes."
ÆOLUS AND ULYSSES.
The famous Trojan war lasted ten years. After the Greeks had captured
the city, they were anxious to return to their homes in Greece. One of
the heroes, the wise Ulysses, had many strange adventures on his way
home from Troy. At last he and his men came in their ship to Æolia,
the home of the winds, where they were welcomed and entertained by
Æolus.
Æolus was so pleased with his guests that, when the time came for
Ulysses to continue his journey, the god gave him a bag with all the
dangerous winds shut up within it. Only one wind was not inclosed in
the bag--Zephyrus, the gentle south wind, which filled the sails and
bore him on his journey.
After eight days, Ulysses came in sight of Ithaca, the home he had so
long desired to see. He had not slept since leaving Æolia. Now, within
sight of his home, he believed that he and his ship were safe, and he
yielded to his desire for rest. The sailors were very glad to see him
sleep, for they wanted to know what Ulysses had in the bag he so
carefully guarded. They thought it was filled with gold and precious
stones.
Alas! when the avaricious sailors opened the bag, the winds rushed out
in fury and drove them far from their homes. At last they were again
cast upon the shores of the Æolian Islands.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl!
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
--Oliver Wendell Holmes.
[Illustration: Tower of the Winds.
_Athens._]
THE WIND TOWER.
In Athens is a temple called the Tower of the Winds. There the people
came to offer sacrifices to the winds, and to hold games in their
honor. The Athenians felt that the winds had great power, and
therefore they built this beautiful tower. The tower has eight sides,
and on each side is sculptured a representation of one of the winds.
All of the winds are shown with wings, and in a flying posture.
Boreas, Aquilo, and Corus are the destructive winds, and are terrible
in appearance. Boreas, the north wind, is the father of storms at sea,
and carries a triton's horn. Aquilo, the northeast wind, is showering
hailstones, and Corus, the dry and parching northwest wind, has in his
hand a vessel of charcoal.
The east wind, which in Greece is a pleasant wind, is carrying fruit
and flowers. The rainy southeast wind, Eurus, is forming rain clouds;
while Notus, the south wind, who brings the sudden storms of rain, is
pouring rain from a jar. The southwest wind carries an ornament which
was always placed at the stern of every ancient ship, for it was an
important wind to the sailors of Greece. Zephyrus, the welcome west
wind, has a lap filled with spring flowers.
The gentle Zephyrus married Flora, goddess of the springtime. Together
they wander joyously over all lands, bringing happiness to the people.
The south wind wakes the flowers, and as Zephyrus and Flora pass,
violets, pansies, daffodils, and roses lift their pretty heads, and
fill the land with beauty and fragrance.
[Illustration: Zephyrus and Flora.
Saintpierre (_modern_).
Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.]
MUDJEKEEWIS.
The Indians tell the story that once Mudjekeewis, a mighty hunter,
killed the great bear of the mountains. Mudjekeewis found the bear
asleep, and after stealthily taking off the belt of wampum which the
bear wore, he smote him in the middle of his forehead and stunned him.
They fought, and Mudjekeewis conquered.
When he returned home, he told of his victory, and showed the magic
belt. The Indians praised him for his bravery, and said,--"Mudjekeewis
shall rule over the winds of heaven. He shall be king of the winds,
and shall be called Kabeyun, the West-Wind."
Mudjekeewis has three sons--Wabun, Shawondasee, and Kabibonokka. To
Wabun, young and beautiful, he gave the east wind; to Shawondasee the
south wind, and the north wind to the fierce Kabibonokka.
Longfellow thus tells the story in "Hiawatha,"--
"'Honor be to Mudjekeewis!'
With a shout proclaimed the people,
'Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,
And hereafter and forever
Shall he hold supreme dominion
Over all the winds of heaven.
Call him no more Mudjekeewis,
Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!'
"Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen
Father of the Winds of Heaven.
For himself he kept the West-Wind,
Gave the others to his children;
Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind,
Gave the South to Shawondasee,
And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,
To the fierce Kabibonokka."
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
WABUN.
Wabun was the son of Mudjekeewis. He was young and beautiful. When he
came from the east in the morning, his breath was fresh with the
perfume of flowers, and he painted the sky with streaks of crimson and
gold. He woke the deer and called the hunters, and chased the dark
over hill and valley.
But Wabun was lonely in the sky, and, although the birds sang to him
and the rivers and the forests shouted at his coming, he longed for a
friend to be with him always.
One day, when a fog lay on the river, he looked toward the earth and
saw a slender maiden walking all alone upon the meadow. She was
gathering water flags and bulrushes, which grew along the margin of
the river. Her eyes were as blue as two blue lakes.
Wabun loved the graceful maiden, for she was alone on the earth as he
was alone in the heavens. So he drew her to his bosom, and changed her
into a beautiful star.
They are still found together in the eastern sky, Wabun and the
Wabun-Annung, the east wind and the morning star.
"Young and beautiful was Wabun;
He it was who brought the morning,
He it was whose silver arrows
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley;
He it was whose cheeks were painted
With the brightest streaks of crimson,
And whose voice awoke the village,
Called the deer, and called the hunter.
"Lonely in the sky was Wabun;
Though the birds sang gaily to him,
Though the wild flowers of the meadow
Filled the air with odors for him,
Though the forests and the rivers
Sang and shouted at his coming,
Still his heart was sad within him,
For he was alone in heaven.
"But one morning, gazing earthward
While the village still was sleeping,
And the fog lay on the river,
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,
He beheld a maiden walking
All alone upon a meadow,
Gathering water flags and rushes
By a river in the meadow.
"Every morning, gazing earthward,
Still the first thing he beheld there
Was her blue eyes looking at him,
Two blue lakes among the rushes.
And he loved the lonely maiden,
Who thus waited for his coming;
For they both were solitary,
She on earth, and he in heaven.
"And he wooed her with caresses,
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,
With his flattering words he wooed her,
With his sighing and his singing.
Gentlest whispers in the branches,
Softest music, sweetest odors,
Till he drew her to his bosom
Folded in his robes of crimson,
Till into a star he changed her,
Trembling still upon his bosom;
And forever in the heavens
They are seen together walking
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung,
Wabun and the Star of Morning."
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
SHAWONDASEE.
Shawondasee, fat and lazy, rules the south wind. He lives in the warm
and pleasant south land, the land of perpetual summer. He sends us the
beautiful Indian summer in November, the month of snowshoes, that we
may not forget him during the long, cold winter.
"From his pipe the smoke ascending
Filled the sky with haze and vapor,
Filled the air with dreamy softness,
Gave a twinkle to the water,
Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,
Brought the tender Indian Summer
To the melancholy north-land,
In the dreary moon of Snow-shoes."
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Once Shawondasee thought he saw a maiden with golden tresses standing
far away in the meadow. He loved her, but was too lazy to bestir
himself to woo her. After watching her for some time, and always
loving her, alas! her golden hair changed to white floss and was blown
about the prairie.
Shawondasee was sad, and he thought that his brother Kabibonokka had
turned her hair from gold to white. But it was no maiden he had seen.
It was only the prairie dandelion.
LITTLE DANDELION.
Gay little Dandelion
Lights up the meads,
Swings on her slender foot,
Telleth her beads;
Lists to the robin's note
Poured from above:
Wise little Dandelion
Asks not for love.
Cold lie the daisy banks
Clothed but in green,
Where in the days agone
Bright hues were seen.
Wild pinks are slumbering;
Violets delay:
True little Dandelion
Greeteth the May.
Brave little Dandelion;
Fast falls the snow,
Bending the daffodil's
Haughty head low.
Under that fleecy tent,
Careless of cold,
Blithe little Dandelion
Counteth her gold.
Meek little Dandelion
Groweth more fair,
Till dies the amber dew
Out from her hair.
High rides the thirsty sun,
Fiercely and high;
Faint little Dandelion
Closeth her eye.
Pale little Dandelion,
In her white shroud,
Heareth the angel breeze
Call from the cloud.
Tiny plumes fluttering
Make no delay;
Little winged Dandelion
Soareth away.
--Helen B. Bostwick.
KABIBONOKKA.
To the fierce Kabibonokka, Mudjekeewis gave the cold and cruel north
wind. He lives far away toward the north in the regions of ice and
snow. In the autumn and winter he comes out from his home, and travels
toward the south.