Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he
now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next
snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth,
and swallow it in a hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble
for him. He found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of
solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and,
jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the
room, both with pain and affright.
"Father, dear father!" cried little Marygold, who was a very
affectionate child, "pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your
mouth?"
"Ah, dear child," groaned Midas, dolefully, "I don't know what is
to become of your poor father!"
And, truly, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case, in all
your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that could
be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely
good for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust
of bread and cup of water, was far better off than King Midas,
whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold.
And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was
excessively hungry. Would he be less so by dinner time? And how
ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly
consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now
before him! How many days, think you, would he survive a
continuance of this rich fare?
These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to
doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in
the world, or even the most desirable. But this was only a
passing thought. So fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the
yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the
Golden Touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. Just
imagine what a price for one meal's victuals! It would have been
the same as paying millions and millions of money for some fried
trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!
"It would be much too dear," thought Midas.
Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his
situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too.
Our pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat a moment
gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her
little wits, to find out what was the matter with him. Then, with
a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from
her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately
about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt that his
little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more than he
had gained by the Golden Touch.
"My precious, precious Marygold!" cried he.
But Marygold made no answer.