upon her to open the box. She believed it contained beautiful garments
or ornaments, and she said to herself: "Why should the gods leave the
box here, if we must not open it? There are many places where they
could have hidden it." So she persuaded herself that she would not be
doing wrong to open the box, although a little voice seemed to warn
her not to disobey.
Slowly she approached the box. The figures upon it seemed to smile
upon her. She thought she would open it just a little and peep in.
Poor Pandora! The moment she lifted the cover, all the sorrow and
sickness and sin which had been shut up in this wonderful box, flew
out and winged their way all over the earth.
Pandora was overcome with remorse and let the cover fall. In the midst
of her grief, she heard a sweet voice say, "Pandora, dear Pandora, do
not grieve so; let me out to comfort you."
"No, indeed," replied Pandora; "too many of your sisters and brothers
have I let out already."
But the voice persisted, and was so kind and gentle that at last
Pandora yielded, and Hope came forth to comfort and help man to endure
all the evils of this life. In sickness or sorrow, hope points to
happier to-morrows, and when we have done wrong and repent, hope
encourages us to do what we know is right.
[Illustration: A Landscape.
J. B. C. Corot (1796-1878).]
THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother nature laughs around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hangbird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space
And their shadows at play on the bright green vale;
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles,
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
--William Cullen Bryant.
[Illustration: Hebe.
A. Canova (1757-1822).]
HEBE AND GANYMEDE.
As you know, the home of the gods and goddesses was a mountain in
Greece called Olympus. It is the loftiest mountain of that country,
and its top is often encircled by clouds. Here were the marble palaces
of the gods. On this mountain, they would meet in council to decide
upon the fate of mortals, or they would come together for a merry
feast.
Fair Hebe, the goddess of youth, was their cupbearer. It was her duty
to pour out the delicious nectar. She was so graceful and light-footed
that she seemed to float rather than to walk. The rosy light of youth
and health shone from her bright eyes and glowing cheeks.
But, alas! one day she stumbled, and some of the nectar fell upon the
marble floor. The gods demand perfect service, and dislike
awkwardness, so poor Hebe was in disgrace. Although she was the
daughter of Jupiter and Juno, she could no longer serve the gods, and
Jupiter sought another cupbearer.
This god can assume any shape he chooses, and as an eagle he flew over
the lands until he saw Ganymede, the son of a Trojan king. Jupiter was
so pleased with him that he carried him to high Olympus for cupbearer
in place of Hebe.
MAY.
Merry, rollicking, frolicking May
Into the woods came skipping one day;
She teased the brook till he laughed outright,
And gurgled and scolded with all his might;
She chirped to the birds and bade them sing
A chorus of welcome to Lady Spring;
And the bees and butterflies she set
To waking the flowers that were sleeping yet.
She shook the trees till the buds looked out
To see what the trouble was all about,
And nothing in Nature escaped that day
The touch of the life-giving, bright, young May.
--Macdonald.
VESTA.
A beautiful little building in Rome is called the Temple of Vesta.
Hundreds of years have passed since the Romans built this shrine. Many
buildings and temples erected since have been destroyed, but this
little temple still stands to show the thought and the artistic taste
of the old Romans.
Vesta is the goddess of the hearth. Fire is the emblem of friendship
and hospitality, and in the temple of Vesta the fire was kept burning
night and day. The Romans believed that if this fire went out, great
trouble would come upon the people. So maidens were chosen to guard
the fire and honor the goddess.
Little girls, six years old, were taken from the best families in
Rome, for it was considered a great honor to be chosen. For ten years
they were taught the duties of a vestal virgin. Then for ten years
they served the goddess at her altar fires, and after that they became
the teachers of the young children.
When a great general had won a victory over the enemies of Rome, and
all the people gathered to celebrate the return of the soldiers from
the battlefield, the vestal virgins had an honored place in the
procession. At the great games held in the Coliseum, the vestals sat
next to the emperor; for they guarded the fire of home--the dearest
place on earth.
SWEET AND LOW.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
--Alfred Tennyson.
[Illustration: Mother and Child.
Saubès (_modern_).]
THE ORIGIN OF THE MOSS ROSE.
One beautiful summer day a fairy saw a butterfly with golden wings. He
tried to catch the lovely insect, and it led him a merry chase from
flower to flower. At last the fairy found himself in a strange wood,
and he did not know the way home. The sun had set, the wind had gone
away, and no one could direct him.
Wearied with his search, he determined to rest until the moon rose,
when the fairies would come forth to dance upon the mossy banks. He
looked about him for a resting place, and asked a stately lily to let
him sleep on her broad leaves; but the petals were closed, and she
would not receive him. Many flowers refused him shelter. At last, worn
out and almost hopeless, he came to a rose. This lovely flower spread
wide her soft, fragrant petals as a downy couch for the tired fairy.
After a quiet nap he awoke, rested and grateful, and asked the rose
what return he could make for her kindness. The rose bowed her pretty
head, and replied, "Make me more beautiful."
The fairy looked at the rose blushing in the silvery moonlight, and
wondered how she could be more lovely. Soon he noticed the dainty
green moss at his feet, and drew a delicate veil of it over the rose.
[Illustration: Cupid Asleep.
L. Perrault (_modern_).]
THE MOSS ROSE.
The angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose tree sleeping lay,--
That spirit to whose charge 'tis given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven;
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
"O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found, where all are fair;
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."
"Then," said the rose, with deepened glow,
"On me another grace bestow."
The spirit paused, in silent thought,--
What grace was there that flower had not?
'Twas but a moment,--o'er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws;
And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?
--Krummacher.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
The Greeks said that Orpheus was a handsome youth, who loved music and
song. He was the son of Apollo and the muse Calliope.
Apollo, who is god of music, loved his son, and gave him a lyre with
golden strings. When he played upon this musical lyre, and sang words
of harmony and love, all the voices of nature became silent to listen.
The ocean waves ceased their strife, the noisy winds said "Hush," and
the flowers turned their pretty heads to listen to his strains.
Orpheus loved his wife Eurydice dearly, and when she died, he would
not be comforted. One day, lonely and sad, he took his lyre and
wandered to the mountains.
Soon he struck his strings, and the words he sang were so mournful
that the trees leaned down their branches to comfort him, the rocks on
the mountain side moved to follow him, the flowers bent their tender
heads and their eyes filled with tears of sympathy, while the rippling
brooks sighed in pity. All nature seemed sad, and the glorious sun
drew a heavy cloud about him.
[Illustration: Orpheus.
J. B. C. Corot.]
Now the gods who dwell on high Olympus heard his lamentations, and
begged Jupiter to relieve his sorrow. Therefore, the king of gods sent
Mercury to tell Orpheus to search for his loved Eurydice in Hades.
Such was the power of his music that Cerberus with the three great
heads, the fierce watchdog of Hades, licked his feet, and let him
pass. All the souls of the wicked who were suffering punishment for
their sins, when they heard his heavenly music, forgot their torments,
and ceased from suffering.
Finally Eurydice appeared. Imagine the joy of that meeting! Pluto, won
by the melody of Orpheus, said that Eurydice might return to earth
with her husband, if Orpheus would lead the way, and not look back
until after she had crossed the threshold.
But, alas! Just as the lovely Eurydice stood in the doorway, the
anxious Orpheus looked back. His great love and longing overcame his
prudence. A last loving glance, and they were separated, until gentle
Death took Orpheus by the hand and led him to her.
This charming myth shows us how music wins all hearts, and, with those
wonderful harmonies which tell us that God, who is the maker of all
harmony, is guiding us all, helps us to endure pain and loneliness.
[Illustration: Child.
Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792).]
THE CHILD'S WORLD.
Great, wide, wonderful, beautiful world,
With the wonderful water about you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast--
World, you are beautifully dressed!
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;
It walks on the water and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly earth; how far do you go
With the wheat fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, world, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayer to-day,
A whisper within me seemed to say:
"You are more than the earth, though you're such a dot;
You can love and think, and the world cannot."
--Lilliput Lectures.
ARION.
Arion was a famous musician who lived at the court of Periander, King
of Corinth. He wished to compete for the prize in the musical contest,
celebrated in Sicily in honor of Apollo. But Periander, who loved the
musician, dreaded to have him go so far away. Arion entreated him,
saying,--"I wish to make the people better and happier by the gift
which the gods have given me. It is my duty to Apollo to sing in his
honor."
So Arion went to Sicily, and his music was so excellent and so sweet
that he won the great prize. The gold and the laurel wreath were put
on board the ship, and he embarked for home. Wind and wave were
favorable, the sky was clear. He gave thanks to Apollo for his good
fortune, and promised to offer sacrifices in the temple.
The wicked sailors, however, knew that Arion had a large amount of
gold and jewels in his chests. They gathered around him and told him
that he must die.
"Do you want my gold?" he asked. "That you may have and welcome, but
spare my life."
But the sailors did not dare let him go to Periander, knowing that the
king loved him and would have them punished for the robbery. They said
they would kill him in the ship, or he might plunge into the sea.
Arion was brave and chose to give his life to the waves. He dressed
as if going to a festival, with his handsomest garments, his jewels,
and a crown of golden laurel leaves. Taking his lyre, he played so
exquisitely that even the cruel sailors were moved to pity, but the
thought of his gold hardened their hearts.
As he plunged beneath the waves, a dolphin, charmed by his music,
offered its broad back for him to ride upon.
The sailors thought him drowned and continued on their way. Meanwhile
Arion journeyed on, singing and playing as he went. The dolphin bore
him safely to the shore. He reached Corinth, and told his friend
Periander of the treachery of the sailors.
When the ship arrived, the sailors landed and were conducted to the
palace. "Where is Arion?" asked Periander. "Has he not returned?" The
sailors replied that he was safe in Tarentum.
At this moment Arion appeared, tall and handsome, wearing elegant
robes and shining jewels. Amazed to see one whom they believed dead,
the sailors fell on their knees and cried,--"We murdered him, and he
has become a god! O earth, open and receive us!"
"Yes," replied the king, "the gods delight to honor the poet, and they
have saved the life of one whose music charms all hearts but yours.
Arion does not desire your death. Go, avaricious souls, and never know
the joy that beauty and music can bring."
JUNE.
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of nature which song is the best?
--James Russell Lowell.
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8 Lambs' Tales from Shakespeare. Comedies (Rolfe) .50
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