Friendship, like love, is but a name,

Unless to one you stint the flame.

The child whom many fathers share,

Hath seldom known a father's care.

'Tis thus in friendship; who depend

On many rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who, in a civil way,

Complied with everything, like Gay,

Was known by all the bestial train

Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.

Her care was, never to offend,

And every creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn,

To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,

Behind she hears the hunter's cries,

And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies.

She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;

She hears the near advance of death;

She doubles, to mislead the hound,

And measures back her mazy round:

Till, fainting in the public way,

Half dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew,

When first the Horse appeared in view!

"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,

And owe my safety to a friend.

You know my feet betray my flight;

To friendship every burden's light."

The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss,

It grieves my heart to see thee thus;

Be comforted; relief is near,

For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implored;

And thus replied the mighty lord,

"Since every beast alive can tell

That I sincerely wish you well,

I may, without offence, pretend,

To take the freedom of a friend;

Love calls me hence; a favorite cow

Expects me near yon barley-mow;

And when a lady's in the case,

You know, all other things give place.

To leave you thus might seem unkind;

But see, the Goat is just behind."

The Goat remarked her pulse was high,

Her languid head, her heavy eye;

"My back," says he, "may do you harm;

The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."

The Sheep was feeble, and complained

His sides a load of wool sustained:

Said he was slow, confessed his fears,

For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.

She now the trotting Calf addressed,

To save from death a friend distressed.

"Shall I," says he, "of tender age,

In this important care, engage?

Older and abler passed you by;

How strong are those, how weak am I!

Should I presume to bear you hence,

Those friends of mine may take offence.

Excuse me, then. You know my heart.

But dearest friends, alas, must part!

How shall we all lament! Adieu!

For see, the hounds are just in view."

244

Tomas de Yriarte (1750-1791) was a Spanish poet

of some note, remembered now mainly as the

author of _Literary Fables_, the first attempt

at literary fable-writing in Spanish. As the

name is meant to imply, they concern themselves

with the follies and weaknesses of authors.

There are about eighty fables in the complete

collection, and they are full of ingenuity and

cleverness. One of the simplest and best of

these is given here in the translation by R.

Rockliffe, which first appeared in _Blackwood's

Magazine_ in 1839. It laughs at the lucky

chance by which even stupidity sometimes "makes

a hit" and then stupidly proceeds to pat itself

on the back.

THE MUSICAL ASS

TOMAS YRIARTE

The fable which I now present

Occurred to me by accident;

And whether bad or excellent,

Is merely so by accident.

A stupid ass one morning went

Into a field by accident

And cropp'd his food and was content,

Until he spied by accident

A flute, which some oblivious gent

Had left behind by accident;

When, sniffing it with eager scent,

He breathed on it by accident,

And made the hollow instrument

Emit a sound by accident.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" exclaimed the brute,

"How cleverly I play the flute!"

_A fool, in spite of nature's bent._

_May shine for once--by accident._

245

Ivan Andreevitch Krylov (1768-1844) was a

Russian author whose fame rests almost entirely

upon his popular verse fables (200 in number)

which have been used extensively as textbooks

in Russian schools. They have "joyousness,

simplicity, wit, and good humor." The following

specimen is from I. H. Harrison's translation

of Krylov's _Original Fables_. It gives a good

illustration of the necessity of "teamwork."

THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB

IVAN KRYLOV

When partners with each other don't agree,

Each project must a failure be,

And out of it no profit come, but sheer vexation.

A Swan, a Pike, and Crab once took their station

In harness, and would drag a loaded cart;

But, when the moment came for them to start,

They sweat, they strain, and yet the cart stands still; what's lacking?

The load must, as it seemed, have been but light;

The Swan, though, to the clouds takes flight,

The Pike into the water pulls, the Crab keeps backing.

Now which of them was right, which wrong, concerns us not;

The cart is still upon the selfsame spot.

246

This fable from the Old Testament is one of the

very oldest on record in which a story is

practically applied to a human problem. The

causes of political corruption apparently have

not changed much in three thousand years.

American citizens gather together at certain

times to choose mayors and other officers to

rule over them, and when they say to the

fruitful olive tree, or fig tree, or vine,

"Come thou and reign over us," he replies,

"Should I forsake my productive factory, or

mine, or profession, to be mayor?" But when

they say to the bramble, "Come thou and reign

over us," he replies, "Put your trust in me,

and let those suffer who object to my

management of public affairs." Jotham's lesson

of political duty is one greatly needed in the

present-day attempt to raise our standard of

citizenship.

THE BRAMBLE IS MADE KING

_Judges ix: 6-16_

And all the men of Shechem gathered together, and all the house of

Millo, and went, and made Abimelech king, by the plain of the pillar

that was in Shechem. And when they told it to Jotham, he went and stood

in the top of Mount Gerizim, and lifted up his voice, and cried, and

said unto them:--

"Hearken unto me, ye men of Shechem, that God may hearken unto you. The

trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said

unto the olive tree, 'Reign thou over us.' But the olive tree said unto

them, 'Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and

man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"And the trees said to the fig tree, 'Come thou and reign over us.' But

the fig tree said unto them, 'Should I forsake my sweetness and my good

fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"Then said the trees unto the vine, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And

the vine said unto them, 'Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and

man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"Then said all the trees unto the bramble, 'Come thou and reign over

us.' And the bramble said unto the trees, 'If in truth ye anoint me

king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow: and if not,

let fire come out of the bramble and devour the cedars of Lebanon.'"

247

The concrete illustrations by means of which

Jesus constantly taught are called parables.

"Without a parable spake he not unto them." The

parable differs from the fable proper in

dealing with more fundamental or ideal truth.

The fable moves on the plane of the prudential

virtues, the parable on the plane of the higher

self-forgetting virtues. Because of that

difference there is in the parable "no jesting

nor raillery at the weakness, the follies, or

the crimes of men." All is deeply earnest,

befitting its high spiritual point of view. As

a rule the parables use for illustration

stories of what might actually happen. Two of

the most familiar of the parables follow. What

true neighborliness means is the message of

"The Good Samaritan."

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

_Luke x:25-37_

And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tempted him, saying, "Master,

what shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He said unto him, "What is

written in the law? how readest thou?" And he answering said, "Thou

shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul,

and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as

thyself." And He said unto him, "Thou hast answered right; this do, and

thou shalt live." But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus,

"And who is my neighbor?"

And Jesus answering said, "A certain man went down from Jerusalem to

Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and

wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there

came down a certain priest that way; and when he saw him, he passed by

on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came

and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain

Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was; and when he saw him, he

had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring

in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an

inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow, when he departed, he took

out two pence and gave them to the host and said unto him, 'Take care of

him: and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay

thee.'

"Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that

fell among the thieves?"

And he said, "He that showed mercy on him."

Then said Jesus unto him, "Go and do thou likewise."

248

THE PRODIGAL SON

_Luke xv:10-32_

"Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of

God over one sinner that repenteth."

And he said, "A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said

to his father, 'Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to

me.' And he divided unto them his living.

"And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and

took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with

riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine

in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined

himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to

feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that

the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.

"And when he came to himself, he said, 'How many hired servants of my

father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I

will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "Father, I have

sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be

called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants."'

"And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way

off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his

neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, 'Father, I have sinned

against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy

son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring forth the best robe

and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet;

and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be

merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is

found.' And they began to be merry.

"Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the

house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and

asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, 'Thy brother is

come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath

received him safe and sound.' And he was angry and would not go in;

therefore came his father out and entreated him. And he answering, said

to his father, 'Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither

transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me

a kid that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this thy

son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast

killed for him the fatted calf.' And he said unto him, 'Son, thou art

ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should

make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive

again; and was lost, and is found.'"

249

This little apologue is taken from _Norwood_

(1867), a novel written by Henry Ward Beecher

for the New York _Ledger_ in the days when that

periodical, under the direction of Robert

Bonner, was the great family weekly of America.

In the course of the fiction Mr. Beecher

emphasizes the value of stories for children.

"Story-hunger in children," he says, "is even

more urgent than bread-hunger." And after the

story has been told: "How charming it is to

narrate fables for children. . . . Children are

unconscious philosophers. They refuse to pull

to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are

made of. Rose knew as well as her father that

leaves never talked. Yet, Rose never saw a leaf

without feeling that there was life and meaning

in it."

THE ANXIOUS LEAF

HENRY WARD BEECHER

Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves

often do when a gentle wind is about.

And the twig said, "What is the matter, little leaf?"

And the leaf said, "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me

off and throw me down to die on the ground!"

The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it

to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent

back word to the leaf, "Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall

not go till you want to." And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on

nestling and singing.

Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the

branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the

little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it

off.

And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of

autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very

beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with

both colors.

Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said, "All these

leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these

beautiful colors, because of joy."

Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in

thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the

branches of the tree had no color in them, and so the leaf said, "Oh,

branches! why are you lead color and we golden?"

"We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your

clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over."

Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without

thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over,

and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air and then it fell gently

down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into

a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about!

250

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), more than any

other American, has emphasized for us the value

of proverbial sayings and the significance of

the symbolic story. This account of how one may

pay too much for a whistle was written in 1779

while Franklin was representing the colonies at

Paris, and addressed to his friend Madame

Brillon. The making of apologues seemed to be a

favorite sort of game in the circle in which

Franklin moved, and his plain common sense is

always uppermost in whatever he produces. The

lesson of the whistle is always needed; we are

prone to put aside the essential thing for the

temporary and showy. More than a century ago

Noah Webster put this story in his

school-reader, and most school-readers since

have contained it. The selection is here

reprinted complete. Teachers usually omit some

of the opening and closing paragraphs.

THE WHISTLE

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of

living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the mean

time, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion,

we might all draw more good than we do, and suffer less evil, if we

would take care not to give too much for _whistles_. For to me it seems

that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of

that caution.

You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of

myself.

When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled

my pockets with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys

for children; and being charmed with the sound of a _whistle_, that I

met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and

gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over

the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but disturbing all the

family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain

I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was

worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest

of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with

vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the _whistle_

gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on

my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary

thing, I said to myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and I

saved my money.

As I grew up I thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much

for the whistle_.

When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time, his

repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it,

I have said to myself, _This man gives too much for his whistle._

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in

political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that

neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said I, _too much for his whistle._

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the

pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens,

and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating

wealth, _Poor man_, said I, _you pay too much for your whistle._

When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable

improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations,

and ruining his health in their pursuit, _Mistaken man_, said I, _you

are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much

for your whistle._

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine

furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts

debts, and ends his career in a prison, _Alas!_ say I, _he has paid

dear, very dear, for his whistle._

When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured

brute of a husband, _What a pity_, say I, _that she should pay so much

for a whistle!_

In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are

brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of

things, and by their _giving too much for their whistles_.

Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider

that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain

things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John,

which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by

auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and

find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_.

251

"The Ephemera" was also addressed to Madame

Brillon, the "amiable Brillante" of the final

sentence. It is an allegorical story

emphasizing the relative shortness of human

life. Franklin's "Alas! art is long and life is

short!" anticipates Longfellow's "Art is long

and time is fleeting." But hundreds of writers

had preceded both of them in calling attention

to this at the same time commonplace and

significant fact. At the end, Franklin's quiet

acceptance of the rather gloomy outlook

suggested by the ephemeral nature of life is

noteworthy, and is characteristic of his

general temper.

THE EPHEMERA

_An Emblem of Human Life_

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy

day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I

stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the

company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly,

called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were

bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of

them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I

understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to

the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress

I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to

the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national

vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their

conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard

now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign

musicians, one a _cousin_, the other a _moscheto_; in which dispute they

spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life as if

they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I; you live

certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no

public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the

perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from

them to an old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and

talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in

writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much

indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company

and heavenly harmony.

"It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who

lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the

Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I

think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, by the apparent

motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in

my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end

of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the

waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness,

necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived

seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and

twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long! I have seen

generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the

children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now,

also, no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of

nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or

eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labor in amassing

honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political

struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot

inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of

our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals?

Our present race of ephemerae will in a course of minutes become

corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as

wretched. And in philosophy how small is our progress! Alas! art is

long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a

name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have lived

long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera

who no longer exists? And what will become of all history in the

eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly,

shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?"

To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but

the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible

conversation of a few good lady ephemerae, and now and then a kind smile

and a tune from the ever amiable _Brillante_.

252

The brief allegory that follows is very

generally regarded as the finest and noblest

specimen of its type. It is here reprinted

approximately in the form of its first

appearance, now more than two hundred years

ago, as more in keeping with its spirit than a

modern dress would be. The world of recent

times is not so much given to this kind of

writing as the eighteenth century was. Like

Franklin's "Ephemera," Addison's vision grows

out of "profound contemplation on the vanity of

human life." The key to the symbolism is found

in the "threescore and ten arches" of the

bridge, representing the scriptural limit of

physical existence, with some broken arches for

any excess of that limit. The fact that "the

bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches"

is a reference to the great number of years

assigned to some of the patriarchs. The

splendid concluding vision in which Mirzah sees

the compensations for the ills of this life

suggests a very different type of mind from

that of the "this-worldly" closing paragraph in

Franklin's apologue. "The Vision of Mirzah" is

No. 159 of the _Spectator_ (September 1, 1711).

THE VISION OF MIRZAH

JOSEPH ADDISON

When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several oriental manuscripts,

which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled The

Visions of Mirzah, which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend

to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them;

and I shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word

for word as follows:

On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my

forefathers I always kept holy, after having washed myself, and offered

up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order

to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here

airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into profound

contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought

to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream. Whilst

I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was

not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with

a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to

his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding

sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly

melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They

put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed

souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise to wear out the

impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of

that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius;

and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it,

but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When

he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to

taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one

astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me

to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence

which is due to a superior nature: and as my heart was entirely subdued

by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and

wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability

that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the

fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from

the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirzah, said he, I have heard

thee in thy soliloquies: follow me.

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placed me on the

top of it. Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest.

I see, said I, a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water rolling

through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of misery,

and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of

eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a

thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the

other? What thou seest, says he, is that portion of eternity which is

called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of

the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that is

thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou

discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the midst of the

tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life; consider it

attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it

consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken

arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about

an hundred. As I was counting the arches the genius told me that the

bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood

swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now

beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest on it. I

see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud

hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several

of the passengers dropping through the bridge, into the great tide that

flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were

innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge which the

passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide

and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick

at the entrance of the bridge, so that the throngs of people no sooner

broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew

thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together

towards the end of the arches that were entire.

There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that

continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell

through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a

walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and

the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled

with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst

of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to

save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a

thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell

out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of baubles that

glittered in their eyes and danced before them, but often when they

thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and

down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with

scimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting

several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way,

and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon

them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me

I had dwelt long enough upon it: take thine eyes off the bridge, said

he, and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost not comprehend. Upon

looking up, what mean, said I, those great flights of birds that are

perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to

time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other

feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great

numbers upon the middle arches. These, said the genius, are envy,

avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares and passions

that infect human life.

I here fetched a deep sigh; alas, said I, man was made in vain! How is

he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed

up in death! The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me

quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, said he, on a man in the

first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast

thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several

generations of mortals that fall into it. I directed my sight as was

ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any

supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too

thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther

end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean that had a huge rock of

adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal

parts. The clouds still rested on one-half of it, insomuch that I could

discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean

planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and

flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran

among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands

upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of

the fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused

harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical

instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a

scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to

those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them

except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon

the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before

thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far

as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands of the sea-shore;

there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest,

reaching farther than thy eyes, or even than thine imagination, can

extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who,

according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are

distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of

different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of

those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise, accommodated

to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations

worth contending for? Does life appear miserable that gives the

opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will

convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not a man was made in vain

who has such an eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible

pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, Show me now, I

beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which

cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius

making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second

time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision

which I had been so long contemplating, but, instead of the rolling

tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the

long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon

the sides of it.

253

"The Discontented Pendulum" was one of

seventy-nine brief prose selections by Jane

Taylor (1783-1824) which appeared first in a

paper for young people and were, after the

author's death, gathered together and published

as _Contributions of Q. Q._ (1826). This one

selection only from that volume still lives, is

reprinted often in school-readers, and by

virtue of its cleverness and point deserves its

happy fate. The author attached to it a "Moral"

almost as long as the story itself, and that

has long since fallen by the wayside. Perhaps

that is because the story is too clear to need

the "Moral." Here are a few sentences from it:

"The _present_ is all we have to manage: the

past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain;

nor is it fair to burden one moment with the

weight of the next. Sufficient unto the

_moment_ is the trouble thereof. . . . One moment

comes laden with its own _little_ burden, then

flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier

than the last; if _one_ could be sustained, so

can another, and another. . . . Let any one

resolve to do right _now_, leaving _then_ to do

as it can, and if he were to live to the age of

Methuselah, he would never err. . . . Let us then,

'whatever our hands find to do, do it with all

our might, recollecting that _now_ is the

proper and the accepted time.'"

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM

JANE TAYLOR

An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen

without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's

morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed

countenance with alarm: the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue

their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights

hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the

others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause

of the stagnation; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice,

protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from

the pendulum, who thus spoke:

"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and am

willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth

is that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became

so enraged that it was on the point of _striking_.

"Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.

"Very good!" replied the pendulum, "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress

Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me--it

is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You,

who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people

in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the

kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life

in this dark closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as

I do."

"As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house on

purpose for you to look through?"

"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and

although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to

look out. Besides, I am really weary of my way of life; and if you

please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This

morning I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to

tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of

you, above there, can give me the exact sum."

The minute hand, being _quick at figures_, instantly replied,

"Eighty-six thousand four hundred times."

"Exactly so," replied the pendulum: "well, I appeal to you all, if the

thought of this was not enough to fatigue one? And when I began to

multiply the stroke of one day by those of months and years, really it

is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so after a great

deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself--I'll stop."

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but,

resuming its gravity, thus replied:

"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful,

industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden

suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time.

So we have all, and are likely to do; and although this may fatigue us

to _think_ of, the question is, whether it it will fatigue us to _do_:

would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to

illustrate my argument?"

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now,"

resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion was at

all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?"

"Not in the least," replied the pendulum;--"It is not of six strokes

that I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_."

"Very good," replied the dial, "but recollect that although you may

_think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to

_execute_ but one; and that however often you may hereafter have to

swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in."

"That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum.

"Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return

to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling

thus."

Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of _light_ conduct,

used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one

consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum

began to wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a beam

of the rising sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter,

shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had

been the matter.

When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the

clock he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.

254

Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Russian

novelist, poet, and social reformer; author,

among other important works, of _War and Peace_

and _Anna Karenina_. He wrote many short

stories and sketches, a number of which are

markedly symbolic in character. The one that

follows is a good illustration of a type of

such tales pleasing to modern minds. We no

longer produce the formal fable or allegory. In

Tolstoy's story are two historical characters

of so pronounced individuality that their names

always suggest definite ideas--Croesus, riches

and worldly greatness; Solon, wisdom and

worldly poverty and lowliness. These ideas are

brought into conflict, and the outcome allows

us to see which is the basic one in Tolstoy's

theory of life. Who is the happy warrior? One

would merely have to quote some words from the

story to have an answer. And if the reader

feels the force of the answer, as Tolstoy

evidently hoped he would, it means a new or at

least a more distinctly held ideal of living.

CROESUS AND SOLON

LEO TOLSTOY

In olden times--long, long before the coming of Christ--there reigned

over a certain country a great king called Croesus. He had much gold and

silver, and many precious stones, as well as numberless soldiers and

slaves. Indeed, he thought that in all the world there could be no

happier man than himself.

But one day there chanced to visit the country which Croesus ruled a

Greek philosopher named Solon. Far and wide was Solon famed as a wise

man and a just; and, inasmuch as his fame had reached Croesus also, the

king commanded that he should be conducted to his presence.

Seated upon his throne, and robed in his most gorgeous apparel, Croesus

asked of Solon: "Have you ever seen aught more splendid than this?"

"Of a surety have I," replied Solon. "Peacocks, cocks, and pheasants

glitter with colors so diverse and so brilliant that no art can compare

with them."

Croesus was silent as he thought to himself: "Since this is not enough,

I must show him something more, to surprise him."

So he exhibited the whole of his riches before Solon's eyes, as well as

boasted of the number of foes he had slain, and the number of

territories he had conquered. Then he said to the philosopher:

"You have lived long in the world, and have visited many countries. Tell

me whom you consider to be the happiest man living?"

"The happiest man living I consider to be a certain poor man who lives

in Athens," replied Solon.

The king was surprised at this answer, for he had made certain that

Solon would name him himself; yet, for all that, the philosopher had

named a perfectly obscure individual!

"Why do you say that?" asked Croesus.

"Because," replied Solon, "the man of whom I speak has worked hard all

his life, has been content with little, has reared fine children, has

served his city honorably, and has achieved a noble reputation."

When Croesus heard this he exclaimed:

"And do you reckon my happiness as nothing, and consider that I am not

fit to be compared with the man of whom you speak?"

To this Solon replied:

"Often it befalls that a poor man is happier than a rich man. Call no

man happy until he is dead."

The king dismissed Solon, for he was not pleased at his words, and had

no belief in him.

"A fig for melancholy!" he thought. "While a man lives he should live

for pleasure."

So he forgot about Solon entirely.

Not long afterwards the king's son went hunting, but wounded himself by

a mischance, and died of the wound. Next, it was told to Croesus that

the powerful Emperor Cyrus was coming to make war upon him.

So Croesus went out against Cyrus with a great army, but the enemy

proved the stronger, and, having won the battle and shattered Croesus'

forces, penetrated to the capital.

Then the foreign soldiers began to pillage all King Croesus' riches, and

to slay the inhabitants, and to sack and fire the city. One soldier

seized Croesus himself, and was just about to stab him, when the king's

son darted forward to defend his father, and cried aloud:

"Do not touch him! That is Croesus, the king!"

So the soldiers bound Croesus, and carried him away to the Emperor; but

Cyrus was celebrating his victory at a banquet, and could not speak with

the captive, so orders were sent out for Croesus to be executed.

In the middle of the city square the soldiers built a great

burning-pile, and upon the top of it they placed King Croesus, bound him

to a stake, and set fire to the pile.

Croesus gazed around him, upon his city and upon his palace. Then he

remembered the words of the Greek philosopher, and, bursting into tears,

could only say:

"Ah, Solon, Solon!"

The soldiers were closing in about the pile when the Emperor Cyrus

arrived in person to view the execution. As he did so he caught these

words uttered by Croesus, but could not understand them.

So he commanded Croesus to be taken from the pile, and inquired of him

what he had just said. Croesus answered:

"I was but naming the name of a wise man--of one who told me a great

truth--a truth that is of greater worth than all earthly riches, than

all our kingly glory."

And Croesus related to Cyrus his conversation with Solon. The story

touched the heart of the Emperor, for he bethought him that he too was

but a man, that he too knew not what Fate might have in store for him.

So in the end he had mercy upon Croesus, and became his friend.

SECTION VI

MYTHS

BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. GENERAL HANDBOOKS

Bulfinch, Thomas, _Mythology: The Age of Fable_.

Gayley, Charles Mills, _Classic Myths in English Literature and

in Art_.

II. GREEK AND ROMAN

Baker, Emilie Kip, _Stories of Old Greece and Rome_.

Baldwin, James, _Old Greek Stories_.

Francillon, R. E., _Gods and Heroes, or the Kingdom of Jupiter_.

Guerber, H. A., _Myths of Greece and Rome_.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _A Wonder-Book for Boys and Girls_.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _Tanglewood Tales: A Second Wonder-Book_.

Kingsley, Charles, _Greek Heroes_.

Kupfer, Grace H., _Stories of Long Ago_.

Peabody, Josephine P., _Old Greek Folk Stories_.

III. NORTHERN MYTHS

Anderson, R. B., _Norse Mythology, or The Religion of Our

Forefathers_.

Baker, Emilie Kip, _Stories of Northern Myths_.

Boult, Katherine F., _Heroes of the Northland_.

Brown, Abbie Farwell, _In the Days of the Giants_.

Colum, Padraic, _The Children of Odin_.

Guerber, H. A., _Myths of Northern Lands_.

Keary, Anna and Eliza, _The Heroes of Asgard_.

Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _Norse Stories_.

Wilmot-Buxton, E. M., _Stories of Norse Heroes_.

IV. NATURE MYTHS ("POURQUOI" STORIES)

Cook, Flora J., _Nature Myths_.

Holbrook, Florence, _The Book of Nature Myths_.

V. CRITICAL WORKS

Cox, Sir G. W., _Mythology of the Aryan Nations_. 2 vols.

Fiske, John, _Myths and Myth-Makers_.

Frazer, J. G., _The Golden Bough_. 12 vols.

Hartland, E. S., _The Legend of Perseus_. 3 vols.

Lang, Andrew, _Myth, Ritual, and Religion_. 2 vols.

Mueller, Max, _Contributions to the Science of Mythology_.

Ruskin, John, _Athena, Queen of the Air_.

Spencer, Herbert, _Principles of Sociology_.

Tylor, E. B., _Primitive Culture_. 2 vols.

SECTION VI. MYTHS

INTRODUCTORY

_What myths are._ It seems that every race of people in the period of

barbarism and early civilization has created fanciful, childlike stories

to explain such things as the origin of earth, sun, stars, clouds, life,

death, fire, man, lower animals, and plants, and the characteristics of

particular plants and animals. In most cases, if not all, they have

accounted for the origin of such things by the theory that they were

created by gods and super-human heroes. Among such peoples as the Greek

and Norse folk, many stories also grew up regarding the gods and

super-human heroes and their relations with one another and with men.

All of these old stories about the creation of things and about the gods

and super-human heroes are called myths. As time went on and the peoples

became civilized, the original myths were regarded merely as fanciful

tales, and were used to furnish characters and plots for many stories

told chiefly for entertainment. Often, as in the story of Ulysses,

legends of national heroes were combined with them. Even in our time

such writers as Hawthorne and Kingsley and Lowell have used these old

characters and plots as the basis of stories, many of which differ

greatly from the original myths.

_Myths and other folk stories._ Myths were pretty largely matters of

faith to begin with. They were the basis of old-time religious beliefs,

explaining to the mind of primitive man how things came to be as they

are. This tendency to adopt what are to educated minds fanciful

explanations of all that is beyond their understanding is easily

observable in the way children explain the unknown. It seems fairly

clear, on the other hand, that fairy stories were told by the folk as

matter of entertainment. They did not believe that pigs actually talked,

that a princess could sleep a hundred years, that a bean-stalk could

grow as fast and as far as Jack's did, or that toads and diamonds could

actually come out of one's mouth. It may be, as some theorists insist,

that remains of myth survive in some of these fairy stories. On the

whole, however, the folk believed these tales only in the sense in which

we believe in a fine story such as "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or "Enoch

Arden." They express the pleasing imaginings and longings of the human

spirit, its ideals of character and conduct, its sense of the wonder and

mystery of the universe. The fairy tale, in general, is nearer the

surface of life; the myth was concerned with the most fundamental

problems of the _whence_ and the _why_ of things.

Such distinctions, however, belong to the realm of scientific

scholarship. The teacher is concerned with myths simply as splendid

stories that have come down to us from a time when human beings seemed

to feel themselves bound into a unity with nature and all mysterious

powers around them; stories that through constant repetition were

rounded and perfected, and finally, through use by the poets, have

reached us in a fairly systematic form. The so-called "poetic mythology"

is the one of special value for our purposes. It comes to us through

Ovid in the South, and does not distinguish between the gods of Greece

and Rome. It comes through the Eddas of the North. It is this poetic

mythology that furnishes the basis of allusion in literature and in art,

and which is retold for us in the various versions for modern readers.

If we hold fast to this correct idea that as teachers in elementary

schools our interest in myths is exactly like our interest in other folk

products, an interest in them as stories tested by the ages, an interest

in them as presenting familiar and suggestive types of character and

conduct, an interest in them as stimulating our sense of wonder and

mystery, we shall not be disturbed by the violent discussions that

sometimes rage over the advisability of using myths with children.

_Values of myth._ To make the above proposition as clear as possible,

let us first tabulate briefly the values of myth, borrowing a suggestion

from Jeremiah Curtin:

1. A wonderful story told in most effective

fashion. To realize this value, one needs to

recall only the efforts of Prometheus in

bringing down fire for man and his heroic

endurance of vengeful tyranny as a result. The

work of Hercules in slaying the many-headed

serpent or in cleansing the Augean stables, the

adventures of Theseus culminating in the

labyrinth of the horrible Minotaur, the

beautiful hospitality of Baucis and Philemon,

the equally beautiful sadness of the death of

Balder--all these simply hint the riches of the

myth as story. This story interest is the one

that appeals to all human beings as human

beings and is therefore fundamental.

2. Myth preserves much material of social and

antiquarian interest. It helps us understand

the institutions and customs of primitive

stages in human development, and as such has

great value for scientific students of human

society.

3. Myth preserves evidences of how the mind of

man looked out upon his surroundings and what

it did in the way of interpreting them. It

makes most valuable contributions, therefore,

to the history of the human mind, and must be

taken into account in the science of

anthropology.

It must be evident that the second and third values are only in the

slightest degree within the range of the child in his early years of

school work.

_Objections to myth._ The objections to the use of myths in school may

also be brought under three heads:

1. They come from a plane of ethics much lower

than our own. This is the one strong argument

against all folk material, and it has a

validity that must be frankly recognized. There

are the miscellaneous love affairs of Jupiter,

and certain stories that have elements of

horror and brutality. Such stories we cannot

use, "though an error on that side is better

than effeminancy." Occasional defects cannot

outweigh the great positive ethical worth of

myth. We must simply make intelligent choice.

The situation is not different from what it is

in choosing from modern poetry and story. It

would be poor evidence of our sanity if we

ruled out all poetry because some of it is not

fit. Let us, however, omit entirely those myths

that are not suitable rather than attempt

making them over to suit modern conceptions. We

may properly allow liberties to a literary

artist like Hawthorne that a mere artisan

should not take.

2. Myth deals with the worn-out and obsolete

ideas of the past, and will give children false

religious and scientific notions. But one does

not rule out _Paradise Lost_ because Milton's

cosmogony is so purely fanciful, nor Dante

because of his equally fantastic structure of

the Inferno. Neither children nor older readers

are ever led astray by these purely incidental

backgrounds against which and by means of which

the human interest is powerfully projected.

3. Myth is too deeply symbolical. But readers

of different ages and abilities find results up

to their stature. We do not demand that the

children shall be able to understand all that

is back of _Gulliver's Travels_, or _Pilgrim's

Progress_, before we give them those books.

What is worth while in literature has an

increasing message as the powers of the reader

increase.

_How to use myths._ We may sum up the conclusions thus: Select those

myths that tell stories of dramatic force and that have sound ethical

worth. So far as possible let these be the ones most familiar in

literary allusion and in common speech. Present the myth as you would

any other folk story. Since myth naturally comes along a little later

than fairy stories, probably beginning not earlier than the third grade,

the discussion of its meanings may take a wider range. Keep the poetic

elements of the story prominent, as in most of the examples following.

SUGGESTIONS

For the soundest and most illuminating

discussion of the values and proper use of

myths in education see Edward Howard Griggs,

_Moral Education_, chap, xxi, "The Ethical

Value of Mythology and Folk-Lore." For some

good suggestions and lists consult Ezra Allen,

"The Pedagogy of Myth in the Grades,"

_Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. VIII, p. 258. A

very interesting plan for the use of myths may

be found in two articles by O. O. Norris,

"Myths and the Teaching of Myths," _The

American Schoolmaster_, Vol. IX, p. 96 and p.

145. Consult also MacClintock, _Literature in

the Elementary School_, chap, vii, and McMurry,

_Special Method in Reading_, pp. 92-105.

The first nine myths in this section came

originally from Greek mythology. The Romans

adopted the mythology of the Greeks, but

changed the names of the gods. English-speaking

peoples have usually used these Latin versions.

Hence in the following Greek myths the Roman

names of the gods are used. In this note the

Greek name is usually given in parenthesis

after the Roman.

According to mythology, Saturn once ruled the

universe. After a great war he was overthrown

and the universe was divided into three

kingdoms, each governed by one of his sons.

Jupiter (Zeus) ruled the heavens and the earth;

Neptune (Poseidon) ruled the sea; and Pluto

(Dis) ruled Hades, or Tartarus, the gloomy

region of the dead in a cavern far under the

surface of the earth. The home of Jupiter and

the many other gods of heaven was represented

as being the top of Mount Olympus, in Thessaly.

Here each of the gods of heaven had a separate

dwelling, but all assembled at times in the

palace of Jupiter. Sometimes these gods went to

earth, through a gate of clouds kept by

goddesses called the Seasons.

The relations between these divinities were

much like those between people on earth. Some

had greater power than others, and rivalries

and quarrels frequently arose. Jupiter, the

supreme ruler, governed by wisdom as well as by

the power of his thunderbolt. He had three

sisters: Juno, Vesta, and Ceres. Juno (Hera)

was the wife of Jupiter and the noblest of the

goddesses. Vesta (Hestia), the goddess of

health, was not married. Ceres (Demeter), the

goddess of agriculture, was the mother of

Proserpine, who became wife of Pluto and queen

of Hades. Minerva (Athena), goddess of wisdom

and Jupiter's favorite daughter, had no mother,

as she sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head.

Venus (Aphrodite) was goddess of beauty and

mother of Cupid, god of love. Two other

goddesses were Diana (Artemis), modest virgin

goddess of the moon, who protects brute

creation, and Hebe, cup-bearer to the gods.

Among the greatest of the gods were three sons

of Jupiter: Apollo, Mars, and Vulcan. Apollo,

or Phoebus, was god of the sun and patron of

music, archery, and prophecy. Mars (Ares) was

god of war, and Vulcan (Hephaestus), the lame

god of fire, was the blacksmith of the gods.

255

This version of the myth of Ceres and

Proserpine is taken by permission of the author

and the publishers from _Stories of Long Ago_,

by Grace H. Kupfer. (Copyright. D. C. Heath &

Co., Boston.) "Of all the beautiful fictions of

Greek mythology," said Aubrey DeVere, "there

are few more exquisite than the story of

Proserpine, and none deeper in symbolical

meaning." That portion of its meaning fitted to

the understanding of children is indicated in

the final paragraphs of Miss Kupfer's version.

Teachers should realize that "the fable has,

however, its moral significance also, being

connected with that great mystery of Joy and

Grief, of Life and of Death, which pressed so

heavily on the mind of Pagan Greece, and

imparts to the whole of her mythology a

profound interest, spiritual as well as

philosophical. It was the restoration of Man,

not of flowers, the victory over Death, not

over Winter, with which that high Intelligence

felt itself to be really concerned."

Hawthorne's version of this story appears in

_Tanglewood Tales_ as "The Pomegranate Seeds."

A STORY OF THE SPRINGTIME

GRACE H. KUPFER

PART I

In the blue Mediterranean Sea, which washes the southern shore of

Europe, lies the beautiful island of Sicily. Long, long ago, there lived

on this island a goddess named Ceres. She had power to make the earth

yield plentiful crops of grain, or to leave it barren; and on her

depended the food, and therefore the life of all the people on the

great, wide earth.

Ceres had one fair young daughter, whom she loved very dearly. And no

wonder, for Proserpine was the sunniest, happiest girl you could

imagine.

Her face was all white and pink, like apple blossoms in spring, and

there was just enough blue in her eyes to give you a glimpse of an April

morning sky. Her long, golden curls reminded you of the bright sunlight.

In fact there was something so young and fair and tender about the

maiden that if you could imagine anything so strange as the whole

springtime, with all its loveliness, changed into a human being, you

would have looked but an instant at Proserpine and said, "She is the

Spring."

Proserpine spent the long, happy days in the fields, helping her mother,

or dancing and singing among the flowers, with her young companions.

Way down under the earth, in the land of the dead, lived dark King

Pluto; and the days were very lonely for him with only shadows to talk

to. Often and often, he had tried to urge some goddess to come and share

his gloomy throne; but not the richest jewels or wealth could tempt any

one of them to leave the bright sunlight above and dwell in the land of

shades.

One day Pluto came up to earth and was driving along in his swift

chariot, when, behind some bushes, he heard such merry voices and

musical laughter that he drew rein, and stepping down, parted the bushes

to see who was on the other side. There he saw Proserpine standing in

the center of a ring of laughing young girls who were pelting her with

flowers.

The stern old king felt his heart beat quicker at sight of all these

lovely maidens, and he singled out Proserpine, and said to himself, "She

shall be my queen. That fair face can make even dark Hades light and

beautiful." But he knew it would be useless to ask the girl for her

consent; so, with a bold stride, he stepped into the midst of the happy

circle.

The young girls, frightened at his dark, stern face, fled to right and

left. But Pluto grasped Proserpine by the arm and carried her to his

chariot, and then the horses flew along the ground, leaving Proserpine's

startled companions far behind.

King Pluto knew that he must hasten away with his prize, lest Ceres

should discover her loss; and to keep out of her path, he drove his

chariot a roundabout way. He came to a river; but as he neared its

banks, it suddenly began to bubble and swell and rage, so that Pluto did

not dare to drive through its waters. To go back another way would mean

great loss of time; so with his scepter he struck the ground thrice. It

opened, and, in an instant, horses, chariot, and all, plunged into the

darkness below.

But Proserpine knew that the nymph of the stream had recognized her, and

had tried to save her by making the waters of the stream rise. So, just

as the ground was closing over her, the girl seized her girdle and threw

it far out into the river. She hoped that in some way the girdle might

reach Ceres and help her to find her lost daughter.

PART II

In the evening Ceres returned to her home; but her daughter, who usually

came running to meet her, was nowhere to be seen. Ceres searched for her

in all the rooms, but they were empty. Then she lighted a great torch

from the fires of a volcano, and went wandering among the fields,

looking for her child. When morning broke, and she had found no trace of

Proserpine, her grief was terrible to see.

On that sad day, Ceres began a long, long wandering. Over land and sea

she journeyed, bearing in her right hand the torch which had been

kindled in the fiery volcano.

All her duties were neglected, and everywhere the crops failed, and the

ground was barren and dry. Want and famine took the place of wealth and

plenty throughout the world. It seemed as though the great earth grieved

with the mother for the loss of beautiful Proserpine.

When the starving people came to Ceres and begged her to resume her

duties and to be their friend again, Ceres lifted her great eyes,

wearied with endless seeking, and answered that until Proserpine was

found, she could think only of her child, and could not care for the

neglected earth. So all the people cried aloud to Jupiter that he should

bring Proserpine back to her mother, for they were sadly in need of

great Ceres' help.

At last, after wandering over all the earth in her fruitless search,

Ceres returned to Sicily. One day, as she was passing a river, suddenly

a little swell of water carried something to her feet. Stooping to see

what it was, she picked up the girdle which Proserpine had long ago

thrown to the water nymph.

While she was looking at it, with tears in her eyes, she heard a

fountain near her bubbling louder and louder, until at last it seemed to

speak. And this is what it said:

"I am the nymph of the fountain, and I come from the inmost parts of the

earth, O Ceres, great mother! There I saw your daughter seated on a

throne at the dark king's side. But in spite of her splendor, her cheeks

were pale and her eyes were heavy with weeping. I can stay no longer

now, O Ceres, for I must leap into the sunshine. The bright sky calls

me, and I must hasten away."

Then Ceres arose and went to Jupiter and said, "I have found the place

where my daughter is hidden. Give her back to me, and the earth shall

once more be fruitful, and the people shall have food."

Jupiter was moved, both by the mother's sorrow and by the prayers of the

people on earth; and he said that Proserpine might return to her home if

she had tasted no food while in Pluto's kingdom.

So the happy mother hastened down into Hades. But alas! that very day

Proserpine had eaten six pomegranate seeds; and for every one of those

seeds she was doomed each year to spend a month underground.

For six months of the year Ceres is happy with her daughter. At

Proserpine's coming, flowers bloom and birds sing and the earth

everywhere smiles its welcome to its young queen.

Some people say that Proserpine really is the springtime, and that while

she is with us all the earth seems fair and beautiful. But when the time

comes for Proserpine to rejoin King Pluto in his dark home underground,

Ceres hides herself and grieves through all the weary months until her

daughter's return.

Then the earth, too, is somber and sad. The leaves fall to the ground,

as though the trees were weeping for the loss of the fair, young queen;

and the flowers hide underground, until the eager step of the maiden,

returning to earth, awakens all nature from its winter sleep.

256

Because of his beautiful idealism and the

artistic nature of his work, Hawthorne

(1804-1864) is one of America's most loved

story-tellers. His stories are never idle

tales, for each one reveals secret motives and

impulses that determine human action. This

characteristic makes his works wholesome and

inspiring for both children and adults. Four

volumes of his short stories, intended

primarily for children, are classics for the

upper grades. _Grandfather's Chair_ is a group

of stories about life in New England in early

times. _True Stories from History and

Biography_ makes the child acquainted with such

historical characters as Franklin and Newton.

_A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_ and

_Tanglewood Tales_ are Hawthorne's versions of

old Greek myths.

In his two volumes of Greek myths, Hawthorne

does not hold to the plot or style of the

original stories; but here, as in all his work,

he shows how incidents in life determine human

character. The following quotation from the

Preface to _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_

explains in Hawthorne's own words the nature of

his version of the myths: "He [the author] does

not plead guilty to a sacrilege in having

sometimes shaped anew, as his fancy dictated,

the forms that have been hallowed by an

antiquity of two or three thousand years. No

epoch of time can claim a copyright in these

immortal fables. They seem never to have been

made; and certainly, so long as man exists,

they can never perish; but, by their

indestructibility itself, they are legitimate

subjects for every age to clothe with its own

garniture of manners and sentiment, and to

imbue with its own morality."

The story "The Paradise of Children," taken

from _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_, is

Hawthorne's version of the Greek myth of

Pandora's Box, which is an attempt to explain

how pain and suffering came to humanity.

According to the Greek myth, Jupiter was angry

when he learned that Prometheus, one of the

Titans, had given men fire stolen from heaven.

That men might not have this blessing without

an affliction to compensate, the gods filled a

box with ills, but put Hope also in the box.

Then, fearing that neither Prometheus nor his

brother Epimetheus would open the box, they

created Pandora. Mercury, the messenger of

Jupiter, carried Pandora and the box as a gift

to Epimetheus, and the curiosity of Pandora led

her to open the box.

THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was

a child named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and,

that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless

like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him and be his

playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.

The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where

Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which

she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,--

"Epimetheus, what have you in that box?"

"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and

you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was

left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it

contains."

"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?"

"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.

"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great,

ugly box were out of the way!"

"Oh, come, don't think of it any more," cried Epimetheus. "Let us run

out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."

It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and

the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was

in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and

mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor

trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always

plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it

growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he

could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide,

he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast. It was a very pleasant

life, indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but

sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or caroling

like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong

day.

What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarreled among

themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first

began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a

corner, and sulked. Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in! The

truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are

now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the

earth. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child

had ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to

discover the secret of the mysterious box.

This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it

grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage

of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other

children.

"Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to

herself and to Epimetheus. "And what in the world can be inside of it!"

"Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus, at last; for he had

grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would

try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe

figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper. And I know a vine

that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted."

"Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora, pettishly.

"Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like

a multitude of children in those days, "let us run out and have a merry

time with our playmates."

"I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!"

answered our pettish little Pandora. "And, besides, I never do have any.

This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time. I

insist upon your telling me what is inside of it."

"As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied

Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is

inside?"

"You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, "and

then we could see for ourselves."

"Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus.

And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box

which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it,

that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still, however,

she could not help thinking and talking about the box.

"At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."

"It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came, by

a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly

forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd kind of a

cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so

that it looked almost as if it had wings."

"What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.

"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was

like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally

that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive."

"I know him," said Pandora, thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a staff.

It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the box. No

doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains pretty

dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or

something very nice for us both to eat!"

"Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until Quicksilver

comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the

lid of the box."

"What a dull boy he is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the

cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!"

For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without

asking Pandora to accompany him. He went to gather figs and grapes by

himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society

than his little playfellow's. He was tired to death of hearing about the

box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was the

messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where Pandora

would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did babble

about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the box! It

seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big

enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually stumbling over it, and

making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of

their shins.

Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his

ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the

earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they

knew not how to deal with them. Thus, a small vexation made as much

disturbance, then, as a far bigger one would in our own times.

After Epimetheus was gone, Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had

called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had

said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture,

and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be

placed. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich

veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that

little Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other

looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this

account.

The edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill.

Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the

prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of

flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely

represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers,

foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled

beauty. But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved

foliage, Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so

lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the

beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more closely, and

touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the

kind. Some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly

by her catching a sideway glimpse at it.

The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief,

in the center of the lid. There was nothing else, save the dark, smooth

richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a

garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a

great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked,

or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features,

indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which

looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and

utter itself in words.

Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:

"Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box?

Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and have

ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not find

something very pretty!"

The box, I had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor

by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold

cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never

was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which

roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet,

by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more

tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three

times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between

her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.

"I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it was

done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again, after undoing it. There

would be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me for

that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the

foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied."

It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to

do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly

thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before

any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too

much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among

the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes,

or at whatever other games had been found out while Mother Earth was in

her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the real play. There was

absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and dusting about the

cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only

too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little

Pandora's day's work was over. And then, for the rest of the day, there

was the box!

After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in

its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and

to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was in good

humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich

border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. Or, if she

chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with

her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the box--(but it was a

mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick

did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our

active-minded little Pandora would not have known half so well how to

spend her time as she now did.

For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What

could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits

would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might

have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your

Christmas or New-Year's gifts. Do you think that you should be less

curious than Pandora? If you were alone with the box, might you not feel

a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do it. Oh, fie! No,

no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard

to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! I know not whether

Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably,

in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the

children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora was convinced that there was

something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt

just as anxious to take a peep as any of these girls, here around me,

would have felt. And, possibly, a little more so; but of that I am not

quite so certain.

On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking

about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at

last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to open

it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora!

First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite too heavy for

the slender strength of a child, like Pandora. She raised one end of the

box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty

loud thump. A moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she heard

something stir, inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as

possible, and listened. Positively, there did seem to be a kind of

stifled murmur, within! Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears?

Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite

satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all

events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.

As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.

"It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said

Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am

resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."

So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its

intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or

quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in

attempting to undo it. Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the

open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing

at a distance, and perhaps the voice of Epimetheus among them. Pandora

stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser if

she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the

box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy?

All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with

the knot; and, happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the

lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at

her.

"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether

it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the

world to run away!"

But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a

twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself,

as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.

"This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will

Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"

She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it

quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she

could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into

one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of

the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was

to be done, therefore, but let the box remain as it was, until

Epimetheus should come in.

"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I

have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into

the box?"

And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she

would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well

do so, at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should

have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what

was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or

believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of

the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had

not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small

voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there

was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear,--or else it was her

curiosity that whispered:

"Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty

playfellows for you! Only let us out!"

"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?

Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and

then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly

be any harm in just one little peep!"

But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.

This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell

with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did

not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on

other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus

had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at

all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. There was no

mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own

accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so

uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what

was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed

him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that at the time

we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be

happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul

or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the

beautiful earth, had ever been sick, or out of sorts.

At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the

play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a

humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her pleasure,

he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to

put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely,--roses, and lilies, and

orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance

behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put

together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy.

The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the

fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days,

rather better than they can now.

And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in

the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.

But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to

intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.

He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,

and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be

aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his

treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he

pleased,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, I was going to say, as

an elephant,--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his

footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his

entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and

was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her.

If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and

the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.

But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his

own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora

was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow

should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were

anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to

himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining

her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly

as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what

happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise.

As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for

the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have

buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling

and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But

Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and

looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures

brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same

instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as

if he were in pain.

"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora; why have you

opened this wicked box?"

Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see

what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room

that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a

disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic

mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor-bugs and pinching-dogs,

were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the

imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats'

wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings

in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was

it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain

and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub

about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and

would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run

and brushed it away.

Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made

their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole

family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great

many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows;

there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes;

there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk

about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and

bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to

Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy

children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been

faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would

ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear,

from that hour until this moment.

But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a

calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that

miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing

her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem

very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you

will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in

their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they did

was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of

them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and

so pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none

of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And what was very

singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which

had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a

day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their

childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and

maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they

dreamed of such a thing.

Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,

remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and

were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them

because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the

world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could

have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly

bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In order to

indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with

his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and

rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying

bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.

Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.

"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head.

But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of

humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.

"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!"

Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand,

knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.

"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.

"Who are you, inside of this naughty box?"

A sweet little voice spoke from within,

"Only lift the lid, and you shall see."

"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob. "I have had enough

of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and

there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters

already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so

foolish as to let you out!"

She looked towards Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he

would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that

she was wise a little too late.

"Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me

out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their

tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at

once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty

Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"

And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone that made

it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked.

Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter at every word that came

from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner, had

turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than

before.

"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?"

"Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good humor as yet.

"And what of it?"

"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.

"Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief

already that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other

Trouble, in such a swarm as you have let adrift about the world, can

make no very great difference."

"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her

eyes.

"Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and

laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora,

lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have

some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so

dismal as you think them."

"Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open

the box."

"And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the

room, "I will help you!"

So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a

sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing

a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into

the dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so

looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger amid the

gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch

of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and

immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the

forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.

After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered

sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them,

that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened

the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a

prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.

"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora.

"I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I

am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box to make amends

to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles which was destined to

be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well, in spite

of them all."

"Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very

beautiful!"

"Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature

is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles."

"And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?"

"As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile,--"and that

will be as long as you live in the world,--I promise never to desert

you. There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think

that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when

perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on

the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know

something very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!"

"Oh, tell us," they exclaimed--"tell us what it is!"

"Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.

"But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on

this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true."

"We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.

And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,

that has since been alive. And, to tell you the truth, I cannot help

being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for

her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped

into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about

the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and

are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their

tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more as I grow

older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope! What in

the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the earth; Hope

makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect,

Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter!

257

"The Miraculous Pitcher," taken from _A

Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_, is Hawthorne's

version of the Greek myth of Baucis and

Philemon. The two mysterious visitors are

Jupiter and Mercury, who, according to the

Greek myth, visited earth in disguise and were

entertained by Baucis and Philemon.

THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat

at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had

already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet

hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden

and their cow, and their bees, and their grape-vine, which clambered

over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn

purple. But the rude shouts of children and the fierce barking of dogs,

in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it

was hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveler is seeking

hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food

and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"

"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a

little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of

bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the

head when they fling stones at strangers!"

"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his

white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some

terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless

they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence

affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor,

homeless stranger that may come along and need it."

"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!"

These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty

hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while

Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and

cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the

cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables,

with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a

bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they

were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully

have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of

their brown loaf, a cup of nice milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the

weary traveler who might pause before their door. They felt as if such

guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat

them better and more bountifully than their own selves.

Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a

village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in

breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably

been the bed of a lake. There, fishes had glided to and fro in the

depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills

had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But,

as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on

it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient

lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of

the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had

been dry land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high,

and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and

stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful

valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made the

inhabitants kind and gentle and ready to show their gratitude to

Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.

But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not

worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently.

They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for

the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed

had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one

another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and

care which all of us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I

am going to tell you. These naughty people taught their children to be

no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of

encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some

poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They

kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show

himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered

to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would

seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he

were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he

had time to run away. This was a very terrible thing to poor travelers,

as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble,

or lame, or old. Such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind

people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of

behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way rather than try to

pass through the village again.

What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons

came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their

servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil

and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off

their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children

were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for

the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master

instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This

would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared

much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing

whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the

prince.

So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully when he

heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs at the

further extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which

lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the

valley.

"I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man.

"Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife.

They sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came

nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which

their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close

behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little

farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and

flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice,

the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure)

turned about, and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in

his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly

along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the

pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.

Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might

not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And

this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their

children and dogs to treat them so rudely.

"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor

people. No doubt they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill."

"Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within

doors and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable

bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits."

Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went

forward and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there

was no need of saying, what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest

tone imaginable,--

"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"

"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way,

notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another

greeting than we have met with yonder, in the village. Pray, why do you

live in such a bad neighborhood?"

"Ah," observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "Providence

put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you

what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors."

"Well said, old father!" said the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth

must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children

(the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls;

and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already.

But I took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have

heard him yelp, even thus far off."

Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would

you have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary

with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment

at the end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of

cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it

was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about

him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived,

too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing

dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not

precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly,

seemed queer. The traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it

appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own

accord, or could only be kept down by an effort.

"I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveler.

"But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall."

"There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the

stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see."

This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever

beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair

of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented

as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully

executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather

dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and

twisting.

"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It

would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride

of!"

By this time, Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.

"Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this

bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper.

We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the

cupboard."

The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his

staff fall as he did so. And here happened something rather marvelous,

though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground

of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half

hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.

There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle.

But, in my private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him

tricks again.

Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention

from the wonderful staff by speaking to him.

"Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice,

"a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands

yonder village?"

"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as

you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now,

and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of

the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise,

so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same when old

Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"

"That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and

there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head,

too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement.

"Since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections

and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be

rippling over their dwellings again!"

The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost frightened;

the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow

darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder

in the air.

But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and

mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could

not help feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage,

although he happened now to be attired so humbly, and to be journeying

on foot. Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any

character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went

about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly

objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea

appeared the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to

the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look,

than he could have studied out in a lifetime.

While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk

very sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely

loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old

man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest

fellow whom he had seen for many a day.

"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what

may I call your name?"

"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler. "So, if you

call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."

"Quicksilver? Quicksilver!" repeated Philemon, looking in the traveler's

face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd name! And

your companion there? Has he as strange a one?"

"You must ask the thunder to tell you it!" replied Quicksilver, putting

on a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough."

This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused

Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on

venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his

visage. But, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so

humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with

gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell

him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling

that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend

all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.

But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many

secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the

events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been

a score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had

dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by

honest labor, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent

butter and cheese Baucis made and how nice were the vegetables which he

raised in his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another

so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate

them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together.

As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made

its expression as sweet as it was grand.

"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old

wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted."

And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a

bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.

Baucis had now got supper ready, and coming to the door, began to make

apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her

guests.

"Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would

have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.

But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last

loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being

poor, save when a poor traveler knocks at our door."

"All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied

the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest hearty welcome to a guest works

miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to

nectar and ambrosia."

"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey

that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."

"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing,

"an absolute feast! And you shall see how bravely I will play my part at

it! I think I never felt hungrier in my life."

"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has

such a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough

supper!"

They all went into the cottage.

And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make

you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest

circumstances in the whole story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect,

had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. Well, when its master

entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do

but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering

up the doorsteps! Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor

did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity

and decorum, beside Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well

as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no

notice was given to what the staff had been about.

As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry

travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf,

with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the

other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests.

A moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a

corner of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them

before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the

pitcher. Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds

itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept

wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible,

by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.

And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help

wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their

very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in

their two bowls, at a draught.

"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said

Quicksilver. "The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst."

"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so

sorry and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in

the pitcher. O husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?"

"Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from the table

and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that

matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly

more milk in the pitcher."

So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill,

not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher,

that was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely

believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and

had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set

it down upon the table.

"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. I

suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot

help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."

"What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents

of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask

you for a little more."

Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that

Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had

poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course,

there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know

precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture

as if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest

idea that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore,

when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was

immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two

snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis

nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their

heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.

And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if

Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage

that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you,

my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk at

supper-time!

"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver,

"and a little of that honey!"

Baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and

her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be

palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of

the oven. Tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it

more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that

it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could

it possibly be?

But, oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to

describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the

purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand

flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to

seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder

is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and

immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their

hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt.

The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that,

had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low

ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with

celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.

Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but

think that there was something rather out of the common way in all that

had been going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and

laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by

Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper.

"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.

"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "And I rather think,

my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I

had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at

once. There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you

thought,--that is all."

"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon

people."

"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They

certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily

glad to see them making so comfortable a supper."

Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.

Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of

opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each

separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It

was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been

produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage

wall.

"Very admirable grapes, these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed

one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my

good host, whence did you gather them?"

"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches

twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the

grapes very fine ones."

"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious

milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a

prince."

This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for

he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels

which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was

incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she

supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case that he wanted

to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore,

he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not

so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white

fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily

filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was

lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous

pitcher from his hand.

"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers?" cried he, even more bewildered

than his wife had been.

"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder

traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and

awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your

pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for

the needy wayfarer!"

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their

place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a

little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their

delight at finding the poor and meager supper prove so much better and

more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveler had inspired them

with such reverence that they dared not ask him any questions. And when

Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a

fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter

personage pointed to his staff.

"There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if

you can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to

make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this;

sometimes getting me a supper, and quite as often stealing it away. If I

had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!"

He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather

fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his

heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old

couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the

evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had

given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for

themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their

own hearts.

The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the

strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to

depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer,

until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and,

perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however,

seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey

before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in

setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth

with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to

take.

So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old

friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple

insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple

spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the

illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick,

laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but

peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They

sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so

quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked

so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it.

But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that

they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff,

snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long.

"Ah, me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little

way from their door. "If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it

is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs,

and never allow their children to fling another stone."

"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good

old Baucis, vehemently. "And I mean to go this very day and tell some of

them what naughty people they are!"

"I fear," remarked Quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none

of them at home."

The elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and

awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon

dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they

had been gazing at the sky.

"When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a

brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep they sounded like those of

an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the

abode of a great human brotherhood!"

"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the

liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same

village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I

do not see it hereabouts."

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only

the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the

clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing

in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But

what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a

village! Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had

ceased to have existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue

surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim

to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom, with as

tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the

world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then, a

little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and

sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling

murmur, against the hither shore.

The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly

perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a

village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the

vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants,

far too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday,

and now was gone!

"Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our

poor neighbors!"

"They exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his

grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a

distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs;

for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the

exercise of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no

image of the better life in their bosoms: therefore, the lake, that was

of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"

"And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his

mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but

little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the

coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever

you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can

throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!"

"Ah," cried Baucis, shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of

them on the gridiron!"

"No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"

"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveler,--"and you,

kind Baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much

heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger,

that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown

loaf and the honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at

your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus.

You have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever

favor you have most at heart, and it is granted."

Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then,--I know not which

of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both

their hearts.

"Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same

instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!"

"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "Now, look

towards your cottage!"

They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of

white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their

humble residence had so lately stood!

"There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them

both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the

poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."

The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he

nor Quicksilver was there.

So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and

spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making

everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The

milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality

of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an

honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this

pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid

that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable

curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage

into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!

Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew

older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a

summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance,

as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their

pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The

guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace,

and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they

espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could

remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with

their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage

overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the

other a linden-tree. Their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to

see--were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each

tree seemed to live in the other's bosom, much more than in its own.

While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required

at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable

in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs

astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two

mysterious trees were speaking.

"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.

"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden-tree.

But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at

once,--"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"--as if one were both and

both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart.

It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed

their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or

so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a

hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused

beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head,

and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:--

"Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!"

And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old

Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where,

for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty

used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the

miraculous pitcher.

And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!

258

One of the very satisfactory attempts to retell

the classic myths for young readers is to be

found in _Gods and Heroes_ by R. E. Francillon.

The stories are brought together into a "single

_saga_, free from inconsistencies and

contradictions." This gives the book all the

charm of a single story made of many dramatic

episodes. Francillon's version of the familiar

tale of Narcissus and Echo follows by

permission of the publishers. (Copyright. Ginn

& Co., Boston.)

THE NARCISSUS

R. E. FRANCILLON