Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king
besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom
nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never
knew, or have entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names
for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the
world. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed
of that precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so
well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around
her father's footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter,
the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish
man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child
would be to bequeath her the largest pile of glistening coin that
had ever been heaped together since the world was made.
Thus he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one
purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the
gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold,
and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When
little Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and
dandelions, he used to say, "Pooh, pooh, child! If these flowers
were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!"
At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless
they take care to grow wiser and wiser) Midas had got to be so
exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or
touch any object that was not gold. He made it his custom,
therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and
dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It
was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole--for it was
little better than a dungeon--Midas betook himself, whenever he
wanted to be particularly happy.
Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of
gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden
bar, or a peck measure of gold dust, and bring them from the
obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow
sunbeam that fell from the dungeonlike window. He valued the
sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine
without its help.
And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the
bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold dust through his
fingers;` look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected
in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to
himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!"