Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the
palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He
therefore went downstairs, and smiled on observing that the
balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as
his hand passed over it, in his descent. He lifted the door-latch
(it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers
quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened,
he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and
others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very
delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their
delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so
gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet soothing, did these roses
seem to be.
But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to
his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took
great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic
touch most untiringly; until every individual flower and bud, and
even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to
gold. By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was
summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an
excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.
What was usually a king's breakfast in the days of Midas, I
really do not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the
best of my knowledge, however, on this particular morning, the
breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout,
roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee for King Midas
himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold.
Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father
ordered her to be called, and seating himself at table, awaited
the child's coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. To do
Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so
much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which
had befallen him. It was not a great while before he heard her
coming along the passage, crying bitterly. This circumstance
surprised him, because Marygold was one of the most cheerful
little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and hardly
shed a tear in a twelvemonth.
When Midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little Marygold
into better spirits by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across
the table, he touched his danghter's bowl (which was a china one,
with pretty figures all around it), and changed it into gleaming
gold.
Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and sadly opened the door, and showed
herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart
would break.
"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "Pray, what is the matter
with you, this bright morning?"
Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her
hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently
changed into gold.
"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this
magnificent golden rose to make you cry?"
"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, between her sobs, "it is
not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as
I was dressed, I ran into the garden to gather some roses for
you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when
gathered by your little daughter. But oh, dear, dear me! What do
you think has happened? Such a sad thing! All the beautiful
roses, that smelled so sweetly, and had so many lovely blushes,
are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see
this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been
the matter with them?"
"Pooh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said
Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the
change which so greatly afflicted her. "Sit down, and eat your
bread and milk. You will find it easy enough to exchange a golden
rose like that (which will last hundreds of years), for an
ordinary one which would wither in a day."
"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing
it contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals
prick my nose!"
The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her
grief for blighted roses that she did not even notice the
wonderful change in her china bowl. Perhaps this was all the
better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking
at the queer figures and strange trees and houses that were
painted on the outside of the bowl; and those ornaments were now
entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.