PONCE DE LEON.
Once upon a time there was an old man who had found life so fair a thing
that he wished to live forever, and to be forever young. He was born in
Spain, and his childhood and youth and early manhood were so happy that
when he grew old he was sad and wanted to bring the lost years back. Of
course he could not do that; new summers may come and new winters, but
the years themselves never come back any more than do the same clouds,
or the same sunset, or the same rainbow. But de Leon, for that was the
old man's name, did not believe this. When a child he had read many
stones and romances in which wonderful things were done. He had all a
Spaniard's love for adventure, and he believed there were things on the
earth and in the earth which possessed strange power over the life of
man. As he grew older he was taught to ride and fence, and many other
things which it was considered necessary for a Spanish gentleman to
know, but all the time he was dreaming over these marvellous things he
had heard. When he became a man he entered the army, and was always a
brave soldier, and eager for adventure of every sort. He sailed with
Columbus on his second voyage, and afterward was made governor of the
island of Porto Rico.
Here in his island home he was not happy, although he had power, and
wealth, and fame, for he sighed for the years that were gone, and
dreaded the time to come when life would be no longer pleasant, for he
was growing old and must die.
And then he heard such a wonderful story, that while he listened, it
seemed as if the years of his childhood came back and smiled upon him.
Among the natives of Porto Rico it was believed that somewhere among the
Bahama Islands there was a fountain of eternal youth; and that whoever
should bathe in this fountain, and drink of its waters, would find his
lost youth again and be forever young. The Spaniards believed this
story as well as the Indians, and when de Leon heard it he determined to
go in search of the wonderful fountain. As he was very rich, this was
not a hard thing to do; he bought three ships and fitted them out with
men, and started off. He sailed for some time among the Bahamas, looking
for the magic fountain, and one day, Easter Sunday, March 27, 1512, he
came in sight of an unknown shore. He thought he had discovered another
island more beautiful than any of the rest. Never before had he seen
anything so delightful as this new land; the ground was covered with the
most gorgeous flowers, and above, great trees spread out their green
boughs and waved them in the soft air, and sweet-voiced birds sang among
the fragrant blossoms. It seemed as if he had sailed into a world where
there was nothing but beauty, the native home of bird and blossom, the
land of eternal summer. De Leon named the new country Florida, partly
because he discovered it on Easter Sunday, which is called by the
Spaniards Pascua Florida (flowery Easter), and partly because it was
indeed a Land of Flowers. After a few days he landed a little north of
the place where the city of St. Augustine now stands, and took
possession of the country in the name of the King of Spain. He then
began again his search for the wonderful fountain, feeling sure that
here where the flowers forever bloomed, and the birds ceased not to
sing, he should drink the waters of immortal youth. But though he
wandered through the forest, sailed up the silent, shady rivers, and
searched eagerly along the coasts, never, save in his dreams, did he
hear the music of the fountain, or see its waters shining in the
sunlight.
He returned to Porto Rico, and the king made him governor of the new
country and sent him back there to found a colony. But when he landed he
found that the Indians were all ready for war; there was a dreadful
battle, many of the Spaniards were killed, and the rest had to go back
to the ships for safety. De Leon himself was mortally wounded by a
poisoned arrow, and was taken to Cuba, where he died; and although many
people still believed that the wonderful fountain would some day be
found, it never was, for the flowers that close at night will open again
in the morning, and the little stream that starts from the mountain and
goes down to the sea, will have its waters carried back by the clouds to
the mountains again, but the years that we leave behind us come not
again, they have gone away forever with the daisies and buttercups and
violets that shone in the meadow last year.