There was a very beautiful nymph named Echo, who had never, in all her

life, seen anybody handsomer than the god Pan. You have read that Pan

was the chief of all the Satyrs, and what hideous monsters the Satyrs

were. So, when Pan made love to her, she very naturally kept him at a

distance: and, as she supposed him to be no worse-looking than the rest

of the world, she made up her mind to have nothing to do with love or

lovemaking, and was quite content to ramble about the woods all alone.

But one day, to her surprise, she happened to meet with a young man who

was as different from Pan as any creature could be. Instead of having a

goat's legs and long hairy arms, he was as graceful as Apollo himself:

no horns grew out of his forehead, and his ears were not long, pointed,

and covered with hair, but just like Echo's own. And he was just as

beautiful in face as he was graceful in form. I doubt if Echo would have

thought even Apollo himself so beautiful.

The nymphs were rather shy, and Echo was the very shyest of them all.

But she admired him so much she could not leave the spot, and at last

she even plucked up courage enough to ask him, "What is the name of the

most beautiful being in the whole world?"

"Whom do you mean?" asked he. "Yourself? If you want to know your own

name, you can tell it better than I can."

"No," said Echo, "I don't mean myself. I mean _you_. What is _your_

name?"

"My name is Narcissus," said he. "But as for my being beautiful--that is

absurd."

"Narcissus!" repeated Echo to herself. "It is a beautiful name. Which of

the nymphs have you come to meet here in these woods all alone? She is

lucky--whoever she may be."

"I have come to meet nobody," said Narcissus. "But--am I really so

beautiful? I have often been told so by other girls, of course; but

really it is more than I can quite believe."

"And you don't care for any of those girls?"

"Why, you see," said Narcissus, "when all the girls one knows call one

beautiful, there's no reason why I should care for one more than

another. They all seem alike when they are all always saying just the

same thing. Ah! I do wish I could see myself, so that I could tell if it

was really true. I would marry the girl who could give me the wish of my

heart--to see myself as other people see me. But as nobody can make me

do that, why, I suppose I shall get on very well without marrying

anybody at all."

Looking-glasses had not been invented in those days, so that Narcissus

had really never seen even so much of himself as his chin.

"What!" cried Echo, full of hope and joy; "if I make you see your own

face, you will marry _me_?"

"I said so," said he. "And of course what I say I'll do, I'll do."

"Then--come with me!"

Echo took him by the hand and led him to the edge of a little lake in

the middle of the wood, full of clear water.

"Kneel down, Narcissus," said she, "and bend your eyes over the

waterside. That lake is the mirror where Diana comes every morning to

dress her hair, and in which, every night, the moon and the stars behold

themselves. Look into that water, and see what manner of man you are!"

Narcissus kneeled down and looked into the lake. And, better than in any

common looking-glass, he saw the reflected image of his own face--and he

looked, and looked, and could not take his eyes away.

But Echo at last grew tired of waiting. "Have you forgotten what you

promised me?" asked she. "Are you content now? Do you see now that what

I told you is true?"

He lifted his eyes at last. "Oh, beautiful creature that I am!" said he.

"I am indeed the most divine creature in the whole wide world. I love

myself madly. Go away. I want to be with my beautiful image, with

myself, all alone. I can't marry you. I shall never love anybody but

myself for the rest of my days." And he kneeled down and gazed at

himself once more, while poor Echo had to go weeping away.

Narcissus had spoken truly. He loved himself and his own face so much

that he could think of nothing else: he spent all his days and nights by

the lake, and never took his eyes away. But unluckily his image, which

was only a shadow in the water, could not love him back again. And so he

pined away until he died. And when his friends came to look for his

body, they found nothing but a flower, into which his soul had turned.

So they called it the Narcissus, and we call it so still. And yet I

don't know that it is a particularly conceited or selfish flower.

As for poor Echo, she pined away too. She faded and faded until nothing

was left of her but her voice. There are many places where she can even

now be heard. And she still has the same trick of saying to vain and

foolish people whatever they say to themselves, or whatever they would

like best to hear said to them. If you go where Echo is, and call out

loudly, "I am beautiful!"--she will echo your very words.

259

"The Apple of Discord" is also taken, by

permission of the publishers, from Francillon's

_Gods and Heroes_. It is the story of how the

world's first great war was brought about.

Teachers who wish to use some of the stories

from Homer's _Iliad_ might well follow this

story with some selected episodes from that

work. The prose translation of the _Iliad_ by

Lang, Leaf, and Myers is the most satisfactory.

Of versions adapted for children, Church's

_Story of the Iliad_ has long been a favorite.

THE APPLE OF DISCORD

R. E. FRANCILLON

Never was such a wedding-feast known as that of Peleus and Thetis. And

no wonder; for Peleus was King of Thessaly, and Thetis was a

goddess--the goddess who keeps the gates of the West, and throws them

open for the chariot of the Sun to pass through when its day's journey

is done.

Not only all the neighboring kings and queens came to the feast, but the

gods and goddesses besides, bringing splendid presents to the bride and

bridegroom. Only one goddess was not there, because she had not been

invited; and she had not been invited for the best of all reasons. Her

name was Ate, which means Mischief; and wherever she went she caused

quarreling and confusion. Jupiter had turned her out of heaven for

setting even the gods by the ears; and ever since then she had been

wandering about the earth, making mischief, for they would not have her

even in Hades.

"So they won't have _Me_ at their feast!" she said to herself, when she

heard the sound of the merriment to which she had not been bidden. "Very

well; they shall be sorry. I see a way to make a bigger piece of

mischief than ever was known."

So she took a golden apple, wrote some words upon it, and, keeping

herself out of sight, threw it into the very middle of the feasters,

just when they were most merry.

Nobody saw where the apple came from; but of course they supposed it had

been thrown among them for frolic; and one of the guests, taking it up,

read aloud the words written on it. The words were:

"FOR THE MOST BEAUTIFUL!"

--nothing more.

"What a handsome present somebody has sent me!" said Juno, holding out

her hand for the apple.

"Sent _you_?" asked Diana. "What an odd mistake, to be sure! Don't you

see it is for the most beautiful? I will thank you to hand me what is so

clearly intended for _Me_."

"You seem to forget _I_ am present!" said Vesta, making a snatch at the

apple.

"Not at all!" said Ceres; "only I happen to be here, too. And who doubts

that where I am there is the most beautiful?"

"Except where _I_ am," said Proserpine.

"What folly is all this!" said Minerva, the wise. "Wisdom is the only

true beauty; and everybody knows that I am the wisest of you all."

"But it's for the _most_ beautiful!" said Venus. "The idea of its being

for anybody but _Me_!"

Then every nymph and goddess present, and even every woman, put in her

claim, until from claiming and disputing it grew to arguing and

wrangling and downright quarreling: insults flew about, until the

merriment grew into an angry din, the like of which had never been

heard. But as it became clear that it was impossible for everybody to be

the most beautiful, the claimants gradually settled down into three

parties--some taking the side of Venus, others of Juno, others of

Minerva.

"We shall never settle it among ourselves," said one, when all were

fairly out of breath with quarreling. "Let the gods decide."

For the gods had been silent all the while; and now they looked at one

another in dismay at such an appeal. Jupiter, in his heart, thought

Venus the most beautiful; but how could he dare decide against either

his wife Juno or his daughter Minerva? Neptune hated Minerva on account

of their old quarrel; but it was awkward to choose between his daughter

Venus and his sister Juno, of whose temper he, as well as Jupiter, stood

in awe. Mars was ready enough to vote for Venus; but then he was afraid

of a scandal. And so with all the gods--not one was bold enough to

decide on such a terrible question as the beauty of three rival

goddesses who were ready to tear out each other's eyes. For Juno was

looking like a thundercloud, and Minerva like lightning, and Venus like

a smiling but treacherous sea.

"I have it," said Jupiter at last. "Men are better judges of beauty than

the gods are, who never see anything but its perfection. King Priam of

Troy has a son named Paris, whose judgment as a critic I would take even

before my own. I propose that you, Juno, and you, Minerva, and you,

Venus, shall go together before Paris and submit yourselves to his

decision, whatever it may be."

And so it was settled, for each of the three goddesses was equally sure

that, whoever the judge might be, the golden apple was safe to be hers.

The quarrel came to an end, and the feast ended pleasantly; but Ate, who

had been watching and listening, laughed in her sleeve.

Troy, where King Priam reigned, was a great and ancient city on the

shore of Asia: it was a sacred city, whose walls had been built by

Neptune, and it possessed the Palladium, the image of Minerva, which

kept it from all harm. Priam--who had been the friend of Hercules--and

his wife Hecuba had many sons and daughters, all brave and noble princes

and beautiful princesses; and of his sons, while the bravest and noblest

was his first-born, Hector, the handsomest and most amiable was Paris,

whom Jupiter had appointed to be the judge of beauty.

Paris, unlike his brothers, cared nothing for affairs of State, but

lived as a shepherd upon Mount Ida with his wife Oenone, a nymph of that

mountain, in perfect happiness and peace, loved and honored by the whole

country round, which had given him the name of "Alexander," which means

"The Helper." One would think that if anybody was safe from the mischief

of Ate, it was he.

But one day, while he was watching his flocks and thinking of Oenone,

there came to him what he took for three beautiful women--the most

beautiful he had ever seen. Yet something told him they were more than

mere women, or even than Oreads, before the tallest said--

"There is debate in Olympus which is the most beautiful of us three, and

Jupiter has appointed you to be the judge between us. I am Juno, the

queen of gods and men, and if you decide for me, I will make you king of

the whole world."

"And I," said the second, "am Minerva, and you shall know everything in

the whole universe if you decide for me."

"But I," said the third, "am Venus, who can give neither wisdom nor

power; but if you decide for me, I will give you the love of the most

beautiful woman that ever was or ever will be born."

Paris looked from one to the other, wondering to which he should award

the golden apple, the prize of beauty. He did not care for power; he

would be quite content to rule his sheep, and even that was not always

easy. Nor did he care for wisdom or knowledge: he had enough for all his

needs. Nor ought he to have desired any love but Oenone's. But then

Venus was really the most beautiful of all the goddesses--the very

goddess of beauty; no mortal could refuse anything she asked him, so

great was her charm. So he took the apple and placed it in the hands of

Venus without a word, while Juno and Minerva departed in a state of

wrath with Paris, Venus, and each other, which made Ate laugh to herself

more than ever.

Now the most beautiful woman in the whole world was Helen, step-daughter

of King Tyndarus of Sparta, and sister of Castor and Pollux: neither

before her nor after her has there been any to compare with her for

beauty. Thirty-one of the noblest princes in Greece came to her father's

Court at the same time to seek her in marriage, so that Tyndarus knew

not what to do, seeing that, whomsoever he chose for his son-in-law, he

would make thirty powerful enemies. The most famous among them were

Ulysses, King of the island of Ithaca; Diomed, King of Aetolia; Ajax,

King of Salamis, the bravest and strongest man in Greece; his brother

Teucer; Philoctetes, the friend of Hercules; and Menelaus, King of

Sparta. At last, as there was no other way of deciding among them, an

entirely new idea occurred to Ulysses--namely, that Helen should be

allowed to choose her own husband herself, and that, before she chose,

all the rival suitors should make a great and solemn oath to approve her

choice, and to defend her and her husband against all enemies

thenceforth and forever. This oath they all took loyally and with one

accord, and Helen chose Menelaus, King of Sparta, who married her with

great rejoicing, and took her away to his kingdom.

And all would have gone well but for that wretched apple. For Venus was

faithful to her promise that the most beautiful of all women should be

the wife of Paris: and so Menelaus, returning from a journey, found that

a Trojan prince had visited his Court during his absence, and had gone

away, taking Helen with him to Troy. This Trojan prince was Paris, who,

seeing Helen, had forgotten Oenone, and could think of nothing but her

whom Venus had given him.

Then, through all Greece and all the islands, went forth the summons of

King Menelaus, reminding the thirty princes of their great oath: and

each and all of them, and many more, came to the gathering-place with

all their ships and all their men, to help Menelaus and to bring back

Helen. Such a host as gathered together at Aulis had never been seen

since the world began; there were nearly twelve hundred ships and more

than a hundred thousand men: it was the first time that all the Greeks

joined together in one cause. There, besides those who had come for

their oath's sake, were Nestor, the old King of Pylos--so old that he

remembered Jason and the Golden Fleece, but, at ninety years old, as

ready for battle as the youngest there; and Achilles, the son of Peleus

and Thetis, scarcely more than a boy, but fated to outdo the deeds of

the bravest of them all. The kings and princes elected Agamemnon, King

of Mycenae and Argos, and brother of Menelaus, to be their

general-in-chief; and he forthwith sent a herald to Troy to demand the

surrender of Helen.

But King Priam was indignant that these chiefs of petty kingdoms should

dare to threaten the sacred city of Troy: and he replied to the demand

by a scornful challenge, and by sending out his summons also to his

friends and allies. And it was as well answered as that of Menelaus had

been. There came to his standard Rhesus, with a great army from Thrace;

and Sarpedon, the greatest king in all Asia; and Memnon, king of

Aethiopia, with twenty thousand men--the hundred thousand Greeks were

not so many as the army of Priam. Then Agamemnon gave the order to sail

for Troy: and Ate laughed aloud, for her apple had brought upon mankind

the First Great War.

260

The little book of _Old Greek Folk Stories_, by

Josephine P. Peabody, is especially valuable,

not only for its fine versions of many of the

more interesting myths, but because it

supplements the dozen retold by Hawthorne in

his _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_. The

two stories that follow are taken from that

book and are used by permission of and by

special arrangement with the publishers.

(Copyright: Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.) It

is worth noticing that the idea of being able

to fly through the air successfully is found in

a very remote past, and that Daedalus discarded

his invention because of the tragedy related

below. Only a few years since, most people

looked upon one who tried to work out

practically the problem of flying as somewhat

"short" mentally. Hence the use of such efforts

for comic effect as in "Darius Green and His

Flying Machine" (No. 375).

ICARUS AND DAEDALUS

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets

of the gods, none was more cunning than Daedalus.

He once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of winding

ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once inside, you

could never find your way out again without a magic clue. But the king's

favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his master architect

imprisoned in a tower. Daedalus managed to escape from his cell; but it

seemed impossible to leave the island, since every ship that came or

went was well guarded by order of the king.

At length, watching the sea gulls in the air,--the only creatures that

were sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young

son Icarus, who was captive with him.

Little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. He

fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so

fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When they were done,

Daedalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two efforts,

he found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and cleave it,

as a swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered this way and

that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling, he learned to

fly.

Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus,

and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash

adventures among the stars. "Remember," said the father, "never to fly

very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you

down, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if

you go too near."

For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who

could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are

birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but

the one joy of escape.

The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father

bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he

waited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly

hand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful ground

of Crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a glimpse

of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a vision of

the gods,--Apollo, perhaps, with Cupid after him.

At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air

dazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great

wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a

halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his

mother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and

the other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that

winged thing in the distance before him that was his father Daedalus. He

longed for one draught of flight to quench the thirst of his captivity:

he stretched out his arms to the sky and made towards the highest

heavens.

Alas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that had

seemed to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He fluttered

his young hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he

remembered. The heat of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the

feathers were falling, one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none

to help.

He fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that

overtook Daedalus far away. When he returned, and sought high and low

for the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on

the water, and he knew that Icarus was drowned.

The nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in

heavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and there hung up

his wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt to fly.

261

This story of how Apollo, god of music and

poetry, was sent to earth for a space to serve

a mortal is also from _Old Greek Folk Stories_,

by arrangement with the publishers. (Houghton

Mifflin Co., Boston.) James Russell Lowell

wrote a very fine poetic treatment of this same

story in "The Shepherd of King Admetus" (No.

373).

ADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

Apollo did not live always free of care, though he was the most glorious

of the gods. One day, in anger with the Cyclopes who work at the forges

of Vulcan, he sent his arrows after them, to the wrath of all the gods,

but especially of Zeus. (For the Cyclopes always make his thunderbolts,

and make them well.) Even the divine archer could not go unpunished, and

as a penalty he was sent to serve some mortal for a year. Some say one

year and some say nine, but in those days time passed quickly; and as

for the gods, they took no heed of it.

Now there was a certain king in Thessaly, Admetus by name, and there

came to him one day a stranger, who asked leave to serve about the

palace. None knew his name, but he was very comely, and moreover, when

they questioned him he said that he had come from a position of high

trust. So without further delay they made him chief shepherd of the

royal flocks.

Every day thereafter, he drove his sheep to the banks of the river

Amphrysus, and there he sat to watch them browse. The country folk that

passed drew near to wonder at him, without daring to ask questions. He

seemed to have a knowledge of leech-craft, and knew how to cure the ills

of any wayfarer with any weed that grew near by; and he would pipe for

hours in the sun. A simple-spoken man he was, yet he seemed to know much

more than he would say, and he smiled with a kindly mirth when the

people wished him sunny weather.

Indeed, as days went by, it seemed as if summer had come to stay, and,

like the shepherd, found the place friendly. Nowhere else were the

flocks so white and fair to see, like clouds loitering along a bright

sky; and sometimes, when he chose, their keeper sang to them. Then the

grasshoppers drew near and the swans sailed close to the river banks,

and the countrymen gathered about to hear wonderful tales of the slaying

of the monster Python, and of a king with ass's ears, and of a lovely

maiden, Daphne, who grew into a laurel-tree. In time the rumor of these

things drew the king himself to listen; and Admetus, who had been to see

the world in the ship Argo, knew at once that this was no earthly

shepherd, but a god. From that day, like a true king, he treated his

guest with reverence and friendliness, asking no questions; and the god

was well pleased.

Now it came to pass that Admetus fell in love with a beautiful maiden,

Alcestis, and, because of the strange condition that her father Pelias

had laid upon all suitors, he was heavy-hearted. Only that man who

should come to woo her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion

might ever marry Alcestis; and this task was enough to puzzle even a

king.

As for the shepherd, when he heard of it he rose, one fine morning, and

left the sheep and went his way,--no one knew whither. If the sun had

gone out, the people could not have been more dismayed. The king himself

went, late in the day, to walk by the river Amphrysus, and wonder if his

gracious keeper of the flocks had deserted him in a time of need. But at

that very moment, whom should he see returning from the woods but the

shepherd, glorious as sunset, and leading side by side a lion and a

boar, as gentle as two sheep! The very next morning, with joy and

gratitude, Admetus set out in his chariot for the kingdom of Pelias, and

there he wooed and won Alcestis, the most loving wife that was ever

heard of.

It was well for Admetus that he came home with such a comrade, for the

year was at an end, and he was to lose his shepherd. The strange man

came to take leave of the king and queen whom he had befriended.

"Blessed be your flocks, Admetus," he said, smiling. "They shall prosper

even though I leave them. And, because you can discern the gods that

come to you in the guise of wayfarers, happiness shall never go far from

your home, but ever return to be your guest. No man may live on earth

forever, but this one gift have I obtained for you. When your last hour

draws near, if any one shall be willing to meet it in your stead, he

shall die, and you shall live on, more than the mortal length of days.

Such kings deserve long life."

So ended the happy year when Apollo tended sheep.

262

This version of the Midas story is taken from

Bulfinch's _Age of Fable_, which is still one

of the most valuable and interesting handbooks

in its field. One who wishes simply good

versions of the old myths without any of the

apparatus of scholarship will find Bulfinch

excellent. It serves well for younger or

general readers who would be worried by

references or interpretations. Hawthorne's

version of this favorite myth may be found in

his _Wonder-Book_ as "The Golden Touch."

MIDAS

Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old schoolmaster and

foster-father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking, and in

that state had wandered away, and was found by some peasants, who

carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized him and treated him

hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights with an unceasing

round of jollity. On the eleventh day he brought Silenus back, and

restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his

choice of whatever reward he might wish. He asked that whatever he might

touch should be changed into _gold_. Bacchus consented, though sorry

that he had not made a better choice.

Midas went his way, rejoicing in his newly acquired power, which he

hastened to put to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he

found that a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became

gold in his hand. He took up a stone--it changed to gold. He touched a

sod--it did the same. He took an apple from the tree--you would have

thought he had robbed the garden of the Hesperides. His joy knew no

bounds, and as soon as he got home, he ordered the servants to set a

splendid repast on the table. Then he found to his dismay that whether

he touched bread, it hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips,

it defied his teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his

throat like melted gold.

In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest

himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted. But all

in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He raised his arms, all shining

with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to be delivered from his

glittering destruction. Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented.

"Go," said he, "to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its

fountain-head, there plunge in your head and body and wash away your

fault and its punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the

waters before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river

sands became changed into _gold_, as they remain to this day.

Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country and

became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On a certain occasion

Pan had the temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to

challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill. The challenge was

accepted; and Tmolus, the mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took

his seat and cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given

signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great

satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to

be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the sun-god, and all his

trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with Parnassian

laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In his left

hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the strings.

Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god

of the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented,

and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would not suffer such a

depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the human form, but caused them

to increase in length, grow hairy within and without, and to become

movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of those

of an ass.

Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself

with the thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he

attempted to do by means of an ample turban or headdress. But his

hairdresser of course knew the secret. He was charged not to mention it,

and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he

found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went

out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down,

whispered the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds

sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began

whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to this,

with every breeze which passes over the place.

263

The story of Phaethon is taken by permission

from Gayley's _Classic Myths in English

Literature and Art_. (Copyright. Ginn & Co.,

Boston.) Gayley is by all odds the one handbook

for the whole field of mythology that teachers

should always have access to. Based upon the

older Bulfinch, it brings the whole subject up

to date and reflects all the results of later

scholarship on the matters of origins and

interpretations. Its bibliographies and

extended commentaries make it invaluable. The

story of Phaethon is usually thought of as a

warning against presumption, conceit, whim,

self-will. It was probably invented in the

first place to account for the extremely hot

weather of the summer months.

PHAETHON

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY

Phaethon was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day Epaphus,

the son of Jupiter and Io, scoffed at the idea of Phaethon's being the

son of a god. Phaethon complained of the insult to his mother Clymene.

She sent him to Phoebus to ask for himself whether he had not been truly

informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaethon traveled toward the

regions of sunrise and gained at last the palace of the sun. He

approached his father's presence, but stopped at a distance, for the

light was more than he could bear.

Phoebus Apollo, arrayed in purple, sat on a throne that glittered with

diamonds. Beside him stood the Day, the Month, the Year, the Hours, and

the Seasons. Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun beheld the youth

dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the

purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless

world, Phoebus, my father--if thou dost yield me that name--give me some

proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as thine!"

He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around his

head, bade him approach, embraced him, owned him for his son, and swore

by the river Styx that whatever proof he might ask should be granted.

Phaethon immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the

chariot of the sun. The father repented of his promise and tried to

dissuade the boy by telling him the perils of the undertaking. "None but

myself," he said, "may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter,

whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the

way is steep and such as the horses when fresh in the morning can hardly

climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself can

scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea

stretched beneath me. The last part of the road descends rapidly and

requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me,

often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to this that the

heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it.

Couldst thou keep thy course while the sphere revolved beneath thee? The

road, also, is through the midst of frightful monsters. Thou must pass

by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near the Lion's

jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction and the

Crab in another. Nor wilt thou find it easy to guide those horses, with

their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and

nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall

the request while yet thou canst." He ended; but the youth rejected

admonition and held to his demand. So, having resisted as long as he

might, Phoebus at last led the way to where stood the lofty chariot.

It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan,--the axle of gold, the pole and

wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of

chrysolites and diamonds, reflecting the brightness of the sun. While

the daring youth gazed in admiration, the early Dawn threw open the

purple doors of the east and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The

stars withdrew, marshaled by the Daystar, which last of all retired

also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow and the Moon

preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the horses. They

led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and

attached the reins. Then the father, smearing the face of his son with a

powerful unguent, made him capable of enduring the brightness of the

flame. He set the rays on the lad's head, and, with a foreboding sigh,

told him to spare the whip and hold tight the reins; not to take the

straight road between the five circles, but to turn off to the left; to

keep within the limit of the middle zone and avoid the northern and the

southern alike; finally, to keep in the well-worn ruts and to drive

neither too high nor too low, for the middle course was safest and best.

Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and

grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant

parent. But the steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was

lighter than usual; and as a ship without its accustomed weight, was

dashed about as if empty. The horses rushed headlong and left the

traveled road. Then, for the first time, the Great and Little Bears were

scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged

into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled round the north pole,

torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive.

Booetes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his plow and unused

to rapid motion.

When hapless Phaethon looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast

extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He

lost his self-command and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or

throw them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld

the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven,--the Scorpion

extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space

of two signs of the zodiac,--when the boy beheld him, reeking with

poison and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell

from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, went off into unknown regions

of the sky in among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places,

now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth. The moon saw with

astonishment her brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds

began to smoke. The forest-clad mountains burned,--Athos and Taurus and

Tmolus and Oete; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses' mountain

Helicon, and Haemus; Aetna, with fires within and without, and

Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with

his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to Scythia; Caucasus

burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus,--the Alps

high in air, and the Apennines crowned with clouds.

Phaethon beheld the world on fire and felt the heat intolerable. Then,

too, it is said, the people of Aethiopia became black because the blood

was called by the heat so suddenly to the surface; and the Libyan desert

was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The

Nymphs of the fountains, with disheveled hair, mourned their waters, nor

were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanais smoked, and Caicus,

Xanthus, and Maeander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus, with

golden sands, and Cayster, where the swans resort. Nile fled away and

hid his head in the desert, and there it still remains concealed. Where

he used to discharge his waters through seven mouths into the sea, seven

dry channels alone remained. The earth cracked open and through the

chinks light broke into Tartarus and frightened the king of shadows and

his queen. The sea shrank up. Even Nereus and his wife Doris with the

Nereids, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice

Neptune essayed to raise his head above the surface and thrice was

driven back by the heat. Earth, surrounded as she was by waters, yet

with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with her hand, looked

up to heaven, and with husky voice prayed Jupiter, if it were his will

that she should perish by fire, to end her agony at once by his

thunderbolts, or else to consider his own Heaven, how both the poles

were smoking that sustained his palace, and that all must fall if they

were destroyed.

Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Jupiter,

calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy

were applied, thundered, brandished a lightning bolt in his right hand,

launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the same moment

from his seat and from existence. Phaethon, with his hair on fire, fell

headlong, like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its

brightness as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and

cooled his burning frame. His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented

his fate, were turned into poplar trees on the banks of the river; and

their tears, which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into

the stream. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him and inscribed

these words upon the stone:

Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaethon,

Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.

He could not rule his father's car of fire,

Yet was it much so nobly to aspire.

* * * * *

The Norse myths originated among peoples who lived in the country which

is now Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. In these lands of the

North, winter is long and dark, and the intense cold is not easily

endured; but summer brings sunshine, warmth, and happiness. It is not

strange, therefore, that the evil spirits of Norse mythology should be

represented as huge frost giants and mountain giants. These giants, or

Jotuns, were first formed from the mist that came from fields of ice.

They lived in a dreary country called Joetunheim, and were enemies of the

gods, who lived in the bright, beautiful city of Asgard.

To live the life of the old Norse folk required strength and courage,

for the little boats in which they went to fish were too small for

storm-tossed Arctic seas, and the weapons with which they hunted in the

cold, lonely forests were primitive. It is but natural, therefore, that

they should have idealized strength and courage and that they should

have represented the gods of Asgard as being large, strong, and

courageous. Although Thor, the eldest son of Odin, was small in

comparison with the giants, we are told in one of the myths that he was

a mile in height; also he had great strength and a wonderful hammer,

called Mjolmer, with which he always defeated the giants and kept them

from Asgard. Thunder was caused by the stroke of Thor's hammer; hence

Thor was called the Thunderer.

The spiritual ideals in Norse mythology are more important than the

physical ideals. The long, cold winter nights kept the Norse folk at

home; hence they had a love for home and family relations and a respect

for women that may not be found revealed in the mythology of Greece.

Wisdom and judgment, too, were more essential than craft and fraud in

encountering the hardships of their life; therefore they represented

Odin, the supreme god of Asgard, as being the god of wisdom. The gods of

Greek mythology often used craft and fraud to accomplish their purposes,

but only Loke among the inhabitants of Asgard relied upon deception.

Loke was descended from the giants, but was also related to the gods; so

he was permitted to live in Asgard. It is significant of the spirit of

the Norse folk that the gods did not trust Loke and came to regard him

as their enemy; and it was he who finally brought misfortune to the

gods.

264

This story of Thor's visit to the land of the

giants is taken from Bulfinch. It deals with

one of the favorite sections of Norse

mythology, satisfying, as it does, the

listeners' demand for courageous struggle

against great and mysterious forces. The use of

illusion by the giant forces of evil as a

method of defeating the open-minded forces of

truth is strikingly exemplified in the various

contests staged at Joetunheim.

THOR'S VISIT TO JOeTUNHEIM

One day the god Thor, with his servant Thialfi, and accompanied by Loki,

set out on a journey to the giants' country. Thialfi was of all men the

swiftest of foot. He bore Thor's wallet, containing their provisions.

When night came on they found themselves in an immense forest, and

searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the night, and

at last came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole

breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but

towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole

edifice. Thor, rising up, called on his companions to seek with him a

place of safety. On the right they found an adjoining chamber, into

which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway with his

mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself, whatever might happen. A

terrible groaning was heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor

went out and found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in

the way that had alarmed them so. It is said that for once Thor was

afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor contented

himself with simply asking his name.

"My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy name, for

I know that thou art the god Thor. But what has become of my glove?"

Thor then perceived that what they had taken overnight for a hall was

the giant's glove, and the chamber where his two companions had sought

refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in

company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast, and

when they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet,

threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such

tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to keep up with him. So

they traveled the whole day, and at dusk Skrymir chose a place for them

to pass the night in under a large oak tree. Skrymir then told them he

would lie down to sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, "and

prepare your supper."

Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly; but when Thor

tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he

could not untie a single knot. At last Thor became wroth, and grasping

his mallet with both hands he struck a furious blow on the giant's head.

Skrymir, awakening, merely asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his

head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor

answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid

himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night to Thor,

and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest reechoed with the

noise, he arose, and grasping his mallet launched it with such force at

the giant's skull that it made a deep dint in it. Skrymir, awakening,

cried out, "What's the matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree?

I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with

thee Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then

awoke, and that as it was only midnight, there was still time for sleep.

He, however, resolved that if he had an opportunity of striking a third

blow, it should settle all matters between them.

A little before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast

asleep, and again grasping his mallet, he dashed it with such violence

that it forced its way into the giant's skull up to the handle. But

Skrymir sat up, and stroking his cheek said, "An acorn fell on my head.

What! Art thou awake, Thor? Methinks it is time for us to get up and

dress ourselves; but you have not now a long way before you to the city

called Utgard. I have heard you whispering to one another that I am not

a man of small dimensions; but if you come to Utgard you will see there

many men much taller than I. Wherefore, I advise you, when you come

there, not to make too much of yourselves, for the followers of

Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such little fellows as you

are. You must take the road that leads eastward, mine lies northward, so

we must part here."

Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders and turned away from

them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any

more of his company.

Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon

descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that

they were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in

order to see to the top of it. On arriving they entered the city, and

seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in,

and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in

the hall. Going further, they came before the king, Utgard-Loki, whom

they saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a

scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder

must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor, he said,

"Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be. What are the

feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in, for no one

is permitted to remain here who does not, in some feat or other, excel

all other men?"

"The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than any one else,

and in this I am ready to give a proof against any one here who may

choose to compete with me."

"That will indeed be a feat," said Utgard-Loki, "if thou performest what

thou promisest, and it shall be tried forthwith."

He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther end of the

bench, and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with

Loki. A trough filled with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki

placed himself at one end, and Logi at the other, and each of them began

to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the middle of the trough.

But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary

had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the

company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished.

Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor

could perform. Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one

who might be matched against him. The king observed that skill in

running was something to boast of, but if the youth would win the match

he must display great agility. He then arose and went with all who were

present to a plain where there was good ground for running on, and

calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In

the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned

back and met him not far from the starting place. Then they ran a second

and a third time, but Thialfi met with no better success.

Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs

of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor answered that he would

try a drinking-match with any one. Utgard-Loki bade his cup-bearer bring

the large horn which his followers were obliged to empty when they had

trespassed in any way against the law of the feast. The cup-bearer

having presented it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, "Whoever is a good

drinker will empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make

two of it, but the most puny drinker can do it in three."

Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size though

somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips,

and without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could,

that he might not be obliged to make a second draught of it; but when he

set the horn down and looked in, he could scarcely perceive that the

liquor was diminished.

After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when

he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drunk

rather less than before, although the horn could now be carried without

spilling.

"How now, Thor?" said Utgard-Loki; "thou must not spare thyself. If thou

meanest to drain the horn at the third draught thou must pull deeply;

and I must needs say that thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here

as thou art at home if thou showest no greater prowess in other feats

than methinks will be shown in this."

Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips and did his best to

empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so

he resolved to make no further attempt, but gave back the horn to the

cup-bearer.

"I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not quite so stout

as we thought thee; but wilt thou try any other feat, though methinks

thou art not likely to bear any prize away with thee hence?"

"What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor.

"We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki, "in which we

exercise none but children. It consists in merely lifting my cat from

the ground; nor should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great

Thor if I had not already observed that thou art by no means what we

took thee for."

As he finished speaking, a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor

put his hand under the cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from

the floor, but the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all

Thor's efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made

no further attempt.

"This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I imagined it

would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men."

"Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among you will

come hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me."

"I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the

benches, "who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let

somebody, however, call hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let

Thor wrestle with her if he will. She has thrown to the ground many a

man not less strong than this Thor is."

A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard-Loki

to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The more Thor tightened

his hold on the crone the firmer she stood. At length after a very

violent struggle Thor began to lose his footing, and was finally brought

down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki then told them to desist, adding that

Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with

him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions

to their seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer.

The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed

themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki ordered a table

to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink.

After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to the gate of the city, and on

parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out, and

whether he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him

that he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself.

"And what grieves me most," he added, "is that ye will call me a person

of little worth."

"Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now

thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou

shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that

thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near

to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to enter this time.

Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in

the forest, where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou

couldst not untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with thy

mallet; the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it

fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the mountain,

where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are

the dints made by thy mallet. I have made use of similar illusions in

the contests you have had with my followers. In the first, Loki, like

hunger itself, devoured all that was set before him, but Logi was in

reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the

meat, but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in

running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace

with that. When thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the horn, thou

didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvelous that had I not seen it

myself I should never have believed it. For one end of that horn reached

the sea, which thou wast not aware of, but when thou comest to the shore

thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy draughts. Thou didst

perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee

the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were

all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat was in

reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and he was so

stretched by thee that he was barely long enough to enclose it between

his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing

feat, for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for

such in fact was Elli, will not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we

are going to part, let me tell thee that it will be better for both of

us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall

again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy

labor and get no fame from the contest with me."

On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet and would

have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor

would have returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around

him but a verdant plain.

265

One of the very best sources for the stories of

Norse mythology is the little book called

_Norse Stories_, by Hamilton Wright Mabie

(1846-1916). (Edited by Katherine Lee Bates,

and published by Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.

Copyright, and used here by permission.) It

reads well as a connected story and the

versions follow closely the originals as found

in the ancient Eddas. In his introduction Mr.

Mabie comments upon those who made these

stories, in language that suggests something of

the value of the stories to us: "They thought

of life as a tremendous fight, and they wanted

to acquit themselves like men; enduring

hardship without repining, doing hard work

honestly and with a whole heart, and dying with

their faces toward their foes. Their heaven was

a place for heroes, and their gods were men of

heroic size and spirit." Of the subject of the

following myth it has been said, "Odin had no

less than two hundred names, as, Father of the

Ages, Father of Hosts, Father of Victory, the

High One, the Swift One, the Wanderer,

Long-Beard, Burning-Eye, Slouchy-Hat. Odin is a

one-eyed god, because the sky has but one sun.

His raiment is sometimes blue and sometimes

gray, as the weather is fair or cloudy."

ODIN'S SEARCH FOR WISDOM

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

The wonderful ash-tree, Ygdrasil, made a far-spreading shade against the

fierce heat of the sun in summer, and a stronghold against the piercing

winds of winter. No man could remember when it had been young. Little

children played under its branches, grew to be strong men and women,

lived to be old and weary and feeble, and died; and yet the ash-tree

gave no signs of decay. Forever preserving its freshness and beauty, it

was to live as long as there were men to look upon it, animals to feed

under it, birds to flutter among its branches.

This mighty ash-tree touched and bound all the worlds together in its

wonderful circle of life. One root it sent deep down into the sightless

depths of Hel, where the dead lived; another it fastened firmly in

Joetunheim, the dreary home of the giants; and with the third it grasped

Midgard, the dwelling place of men. Serpents and all kinds of worms

gnawed continually at its roots, but were never able to destroy them.

Its branches spread out over the whole earth, and the topmost boughs

swayed in the clear air of Asgard itself, rustling against the Valhal,

the home of the heroes who had done great deeds or died manfully in

battle. At the foot of the tree sat the three Norns, wonderful spinners

of fate, who weave the thread of every man's life, making it what they

will; and a strange weaving it often was, cut off when the pattern was

just beginning to show itself. And every day these Norns sprinkled the

tree with the water of life from the Urdar fountain, and so kept it

forever green. In the topmost branches sat an eagle singing a strange

song about the birth of the world, its decay and death. Under its

branches browsed all manner of animals; among its leaves every kind of

bird made its nest; by day the rainbow hung under it; at night the pale

northern light flashed over it, and as the winds swept through its

rustling branches, the multitudinous murmur of the leaves told strange

stories of the past and of the future.

The giants were older than the gods, and knew so much more of the past

that the gods had to go to them for wisdom. After a time, however, the

gods became wiser than the giants, or they would have ceased to be gods,

and been destroyed by the giants, instead of destroying them. When the

world was still young, and there were still many things which even the

gods had to learn, Odin was so anxious to become wise that he went to a

deep well whose waters touched the roots of Ygdrasil itself. The keeper

of the well was a very old and very wise giant, named Mimer, or Memory,

and he gave no draughts out of the well until he was well paid; for the

well contained the water of wisdom, and whoever drank of it became

straightway wonderfully wise.

"Give me a draught of this clear water, O Mimer," said Odin, when he had

reached the well, and was looking down into its clear, fathomless

depths.

Mimer, the keeper, was so old that he could remember everything that had

ever happened. His eyes were clear and calm as the stars, his face was

noble and restful, and his long white beard flowed down to his waist.

"This water is only to be had at a great price," he said in a

wonderfully sweet, majestic tone. "I cannot give to all who ask, but

only to those who are able and willing to give greatly in return," he

continued.

If Odin had been less of a god he would have thought longer and

bargained sharper, but he was so godlike that he cared more to be wise

and great than for anything else.

"I will give you whatever you ask," he answered.

Mimer thought a moment. "You must leave an eye," he said at last.

Then he drew up a great draught of the sparkling water, and Odin

quenched his divine thirst and went away rejoicing, although he had left

an eye behind. Even the gods could not be wise without struggle and toil

and sacrifice.

So Odin became the wisest in all the worlds, and there was no god or

giant that could contend with him. There was one giant, however, who was

called all-wise in Joetunheim, with whom many had contended in knowledge,

with curious and difficult questions, and had always been silenced and

killed, for then, as now, a man's life often depended on his wisdom. Of

this giant, Vafthrudner, and his wisdom many wonderful stories were

told, and even among the gods his fame was great. One day as Odin sat

thinking of many strange things in the worlds, and many mysterious

things in the future, he thought of Vafthrudner. "I will go to Joetunheim

and measure wisdom with Vafthrudner, the wisest of the giants," said he

to Frigg, his wife, who was sitting by.

Then Frigg remembered those who had gone to contend with the all-wise

giant and had never come back, and a fear came over her that the same

fate might befall Odin.

"You are wisest in all the worlds, All-Father," she said; "why should

you seek a treacherous giant who knows not half so much as you?"

But Odin, who feared nothing, could not be persuaded to stay, and Frigg

sadly said good-by as he passed out of Asgard on his journey to

Joetunheim. His blue mantle set with stars and his golden helmet he left

behind him, and as he journeyed swiftly those who met him saw nothing

godlike in him; nor did Vafthrudner when at last he stood at the giant's

door.

"I am a simple traveler, Gangraad by name," he said, as Vafthrudner came

gruffly toward him. "I ask your hospitality and a chance to strive with

you in wisdom." The giant laughed scornfully at the thought of a man

coming to contend with him for mastery in knowledge.

"You shall have all you want of both," he growled, "and if you cannot

answer my questions you shall never go hence alive."

He did not even ask Odin to sit down, but let him stand in the hall,

despising him too much to show him any courtesy. After a time he began

to ask questions.

"Tell me, if you can, O wise Gangraad, the name of the river which

divides Asgard from Joetunheim."

"The river Ifing, which never freezes over," answered Odin quickly, as

if it were the easiest question in the world; and indeed it was to him,

although no man could have answered it. Vafthrudner looked up in great

surprise when he heard the reply.

"Good," he said, "you have answered rightly. Tell me, now, the names of

the horses that carry day and night across the sky."

Before the words were fairly spoken Odin replied, "Skinfaxe and

Hrimfaxe." The giant could not conceal his surprise that a man should

know these things.

"Once more," he said quickly, as if he were risking everything on one

question; "tell me the name of the plain where the Last Battle will be

fought."

This was a terrible question, for the Last Battle was still far off in

the future, and only the gods and the greatest of the giants knew where

and when it would come. Odin bowed his head when he heard the words, for

to be ready for that battle was the divine work of his life, and then

said, slowly and solemnly, "On the plain of Vigrid, which is one hundred

miles on each side."

Vafthrudner rose trembling from his seat. He knew now that Gangraad was

some great one in disguise, and that his own life hung on the answers he

himself would soon be forced to make.

"Sit here beside me," he said, "for whoever you are, worthier antagonist

has never entered these walls."

Then they sat down together in the rude stone hall, the mightiest of the

gods and the wisest of the giants, and the great contest in wisdom, with

a life hanging in either scale, went on between them. Wonderful secrets

of the time when no man was and the time when no man will be, those

silent walls listened to as Vafthrudner asked Odin one deep question

after another, the answer coming swiftly and surely.

After a time the giant could ask no more, for he had exhausted his

wisdom.

"It is my turn now," said Odin, and one after another he drew out from

Vafthrudner the events of the past and then the wonderful things of the

race of giants, and finally he began to question him of that dim,

mysterious future whose secrets only the gods know; and as he touched

these wonderful things Odin's eyes began to flash, and his form to grow

larger and nobler until he seemed no longer the humble Gangraad, but the

mighty god he was, and Vafthrudner trembled as he felt the coming doom

nearing him with every question.

So hours went by, until at last Odin paused in his swift questioning,

stooped down, and asked the giant, "What did Odin whisper in the ear of

Balder as he ascended the funeral pile?"

Only Odin himself could answer this question, and Vafthrudner replied

humbly and with awe, "Who but thyself, All-Father, knoweth the words

thou didst say to thy son in the days of old? I have brought my doom

upon myself, for in my ignorance I have contended with wisdom itself.

Thou art ever the wisest of all."

So Odin conquered, and Wisdom was victorious, as she always has been

even when she has contended with giants.

266

The story of the splendid courage of Tyr at the

time of the chaining up of the terrible Fenris

wolf has always been one of the favorite Norse

tales. The three repulsive giant monsters in

whom the forces of evil are embodied are well

imagined to suggest to us powers that may

finally be stronger than the gods themselves.

The failures to find a chain strong enough, and

the final success with the magic bond made in

Dwarfland, form a series of powerfully dramatic

steps in the story. The elements of which the

slender rope is made never fail to fascinate

hearers, young or old, with a sense of the most

profound mystery. "Why the dwarfs should be

able to make a chain strong enough to bind him,

which the gods had failed to do, is a puzzle.

May it mean that subtlety can compass ends

which force has to relinquish, or possibly a

better thing than subtlety, gentleness?" And

the final need of a hero willing to take

extreme risks for some good greater than

himself is amply and admirably satisfied in the

brave Tyr. The version of the story used here

is from Miss E. M. Wilmot-Buxton's _Stories of

Norse Heroes_.

HOW THE FENRIS WOLF WAS CHAINED

E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON

Fair as were the meads of Asgard, we have seen that the Asa folk were

fond of wandering far afield in other regions. Most restless of all was

Red Loki, that cunning fellow who was always bringing trouble upon

himself or upon his kindred. And because he loved evil, he would often

betake himself to the gloomy halls of Giantland and mingle with the

wicked folk of that region.

Now one day he met a hideous giantess named Angur-Boda. This creature

had a heart of ice, and because he loved ugliness and evil she had a

great attraction for him, and in the end he married her, and they lived

together in a horrible cave in Giantland.

Three children were born to Loki and Angur-Boda in this dread abode, and

they were even more terrible in appearance than their mother. The first

was an immense wolf called Fenris, with a huge mouth filled with long

white teeth, which he was constantly gnashing together. The second was a

wicked-looking serpent with a fiery-red tongue lolling from its mouth.

The third was a hideous giantess, partly blue and partly flesh color,

whose name was Hela.

No sooner were these three terrible children born than all the wise men

of the earth began to foretell the misery they would bring upon the Asa

folk.

In vain did Loki try to keep them hidden within the cave wherein their

mother dwelt. They soon grew so immense in size that no dwelling would

contain them, and all the world began to talk of their frightful

appearance.

It was not long, of course, before All-Father Odin, from his high seat

in Asgard, heard of the children of Loki. So he sent for some of the

Asas, and said: "Much evil will come upon us, O my children, from this

giant brood, if we defend not ourselves against them. For their mother

will teach them wickedness, and still more quickly will they learn the

cunning wiles of their father. Fetch me them here, therefore, that I may

deal with them forthwith."

So, after somewhat of a struggle, the Asas captured the three

giant-children and brought them before Odin's judgment seat.

Then Odin looked first at Hela, and when he saw her gloomy eyes, full of

misery and despair, he was sorry, and dealt kindly with her, saying:

"Thou art the bringer of Pain to man, and Asgard is no place for such as

thou. But I will make thee ruler of the Mist Home, and there shalt thou

rule over that unlighted world, the Region of the Dead."

Forthwith he sent her away over rough roads to the cold, dark region of

the North called the Mist Home. And there did Hela rule over a grim

crew, for all those who had done wickedness in the world above were

imprisoned by her in those gloomy regions. To her came also all those

who had died, not on the battlefield, but of old age or disease. And

though these were treated kindly enough, theirs was a joyless life in

comparison with that of the dead warriors who were feasting and fighting

in the halls of Valhalla, under the kindly rule of All-Father Odin.

Having thus disposed of Hela, Odin next turned his attention to the

serpent. And when he saw his evil tongue and cunning, wicked eyes, he

said: "Thou art he who bringest Sin into the world of men; therefore the

ocean shall be thy home forever."

Then he threw that horrid serpent into the deep sea which surrounds all

lands, and there the creature grew so fast that when he stretched

himself one day he encircled all the earth, and held his own tail fast

in his mouth. And sometimes he grew angry to think that he, the son of a

god, had thus been cast out; and at those times he would writhe with his

huge body and lash his tail till the sea spouted up to the sky. And when

that happened the men of the North said that a great tempest was raging.

But it was only the serpent-son of Loki writhing in his wrath.

Then Odin turned to the third child. And behold! the Fenris Wolf was so

appalling to look upon that Odin feared to cast him forth, and he

decided to endeavor to tame him by kindness so that he should not wish

them ill.

But when he bade them carry food to the Fenris Wolf, not one of the Asas

would do so, for they feared a snap from his great jaws. Only the brave

Tyr had courage enough to feed him, and the wolf ate so much and so fast

that the business took him all his time. Meantime, too, the Fenris grew

so rapidly, and became so fierce, that the gods were compelled to take

counsel and consider how they should get rid of him. They remembered

that it would make their peaceful halls unholy if they were to slay him,

and so they resolved instead to bind him fast, that he should be unable

to do them harm.

So those of the Asa folk who were clever smiths set to work and made a

very strong, thick chain; and when it was finished they carried it out

to the yard where the wolf dwelt, and said to him, as though in jest:

"Here is a fine proof of thy boasted strength, O Fenris. Let us bind

this about thee, that we may see if thou canst break it asunder."

Then the wolf gave a great grin with his wide jaws, and came and stood

still that they might bind the chain about him; for he knew what he

could do. And it came to pass that directly they had fastened the chain,

and had slipped aside from him, the great beast gave himself a shake,

and the chain fell about him in little bits. At this the Asas were much

annoyed, but they tried not to show it, and praised him for his

strength.

Then they set to work again upon a chain much stronger than the last,

and brought it to the Fenris Wolf, saying: "Great will be thy renown, O

Fenris, if thou canst break this chain as thou didst the last."

But the wolf looked at them askance, for the chain they brought was very

much thicker than the one he had already broken. He reflected, however,

that since that time he himself had grown stronger and bigger, and

moreover, that one must risk something in order to win renown.

So he let them put the chain upon him, and when the Asas said that all

was ready, he gave a good shake and stretched himself a few times, and

again the fetters lay in fragments on the ground.

Then the gods began to fear that they would never hold the wolf in

bonds; and it was All-Father Odin who persuaded them to make one more

attempt. So they sent a messenger to Dwarfland bidding him ask the

Little Men to make a chain which nothing could possibly destroy.

Setting at once to work, the clever little smiths soon fashioned a

slender silken rope, and gave it to the messenger, saying that no

strength could break it, and that the more it was strained the stronger

it would become.

It was made of the most mysterious things--the sound of a cat's

footsteps, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of

fishes, and other such strange materials, which only the dwarfs knew how

to use. With this chain the messenger hastened back over the Rainbow

Bridge to Asgard.

By this time the Fenris Wolf had grown too big for his yard, so he lived

on a rocky island in the middle of the lake that lies in the midst of

Asgard. And here the Asas now betook themselves with their chain, and

began to play their part with wily words.

"See," they cried, "O Fenris! Here is a cord so soft and thin that none

would think of it binding such strength as thine." And they laughed

great laughs, and handed it to one another, and tried its strength by

pulling at it with all their might, but it did not break.

Then they came nearer and used more wiles, saying: "_We_ cannot break

the cord, though 'tis stronger than it looks, but thou, O mighty one,

will be able to snap it in a moment."

But the wolf tossed his head in scorn, and said: "Small renown would

there be to me, O Asa folk, if I were to break yon slender string. Save,

therefore, your breath, and leave me now alone."

"Aha!" cried the Asas, "thou fearest the might of the silken cord, thou

false one, and that is why thou wilt not let us bind thee!"

"Not I," said the Fenris Wolf, growing rather suspicious, "but if it is

made with craft and guile it shall never come near my feet."

"But," said the Asas, "thou wilt surely be able to break this silken

cord with ease, since thou hast already broken the great iron fetters."

To this the wolf made no answer, pretending not to hear.

"Come!" said the Asas again, "why shouldst thou fear? For even if thou

couldst not break the cord we would immediately let thee free again. To

refuse is a coward's piece of work."

Then the wolf gnashed his teeth at them in anger, and said: "Well I know

you Asas! For if you bind me so fast that I cannot get loose you will

skulk away, and it will be long before I get any help from you; and

therefore am I loth to let this band be laid upon me."

But still the Asas continued to persuade him and to twit him with

cowardice until at length the Fenris Wolf said, with a sullen growl:

"Have it your own way then. But, as a pledge that this is done without

deceit, let one of you lay his hand in my mouth while you are binding

me, and afterwards while I try to break the bonds."

Then the Asa folk looked at one another in dismay, for they knew very

well what this would mean. And while they consulted together the wolf

stood gnashing his teeth at them with a horrid grin.

At length Tyr the Brave hesitated no longer. Boldly he stalked up to the

wolf and thrust his arm into his enormous mouth, bidding the Asas bind

fast the beast. Scarce had they done so when the wolf began to strain

and pull, but the more he did so the tighter and stiffer the rope

became.

The gods shouted and laughed with glee when they saw how all his efforts

were in vain. But Tyr did not join in their mirth, for the wolf in his

rage snapped his great teeth together and bit off his hand at the wrist.

Now when the Asas discovered that the animal was fast bound, they took

the chain which was fixed to the rope and drew it through a huge rock,

and fastened this rock deep down in the earth, so that it could never be

moved. And this they fastened to another great rock which was driven

still deeper into the ground.

When the Fenris Wolf found that he had been thus secured he opened his

mouth terribly wide, and twisted himself right and left, and tried his

best to bite the Asa folk. He uttered, moreover, such terrible howls

that at length the gods could bear it no longer. So they took a sword

and thrust it into his mouth, so that the hilt rested on his lower, and

the point against his upper, jaw. And there he was doomed to remain

until the end of All Things shall come, when he

"Freed from the Chain

Shall range the Earth."

267

The story of Frey in the Norse mythology

corresponds to that of Persephone (Proserpine)

in classic mythology. (See No. 255.) Frey is

"the god of the earth's fruitfulness, presiding

over rain, sunshine, and all the fruits of the

earth, and dispensing wealth among men."

Skirnir is the sun-warmed air, and Gerda is the

seed. The version of the story used below is

from _The Heroes of Asgard_ by Annie and Eliza

Keary. This book was first published in 1854,

and while a little old-fashioned in style is

still one of the most pleasing attempts to tell

the Norse myths for young people.

FREY

A. AND E. KEARY

PART I

ON TIPTOE IN AIR THRONE

Wherever Frey came there was summer and sunshine. Flowers sprang up

under his footsteps, and bright-winged insects, like flying flowers,

hovered round his head. His warm breath ripened the fruit on the trees,

and gave a bright yellow color to the corn, and purple bloom to the

grapes, as he passed through fields and vineyards.

When he rode along in his car, drawn by the stately boar, Golden

Bristles, soft winds blew before him, filling the air with fragrance and

spreading abroad the news, "Van Frey is coming!" and every half-closed

flower burst into perfect beauty, and forest, and field, and hill

flushed their richest colors to greet his presence.

Under Frey's care and instruction the pretty little light elves forgot

their idle ways and learned all the pleasant tasks he had promised to

teach them. It was the prettiest possible sight to see them in the

evening filling their tiny buckets, and running about among the woods

and meadows to hang the dew-drops deftly on the slender tips of the

grass-blades, or to drop them into the half-closed cups of the sleepy

flowers. When this last of their day's tasks was over they used to

cluster round their summer-king, like bees about the queen, while he

told them stories about the wars between the Aesir and the giants, or of

the old time when he lived alone with his father Nioerd, in Noatun, and

listened to the waves singing songs of far distant lands. So pleasantly

did they spend their time in Alfheim.

But in the midst of all this work and play Frey had a wish in his mind,

of which he could not help often talking to his clear-minded messenger

and friend Skirnir. "I have seen many things," he used to say, "and

traveled through many lands; but to see all the world at once, as Asa

Odin does from Air Throne, _that_ must be a splendid sight."

"Only Father Odin may sit on Air Throne," Skirnir would say; and it

seemed to Frey that this answer was not so much to the purpose as his

friend's sayings generally were.

At length, one very clear summer evening, when Odin was feasting with

the other Aesir in Valhalla, Frey could restrain his curiosity no

longer. He left Alfheim, where all the little elves were fast asleep,

and, without asking any one's advice, climbed into Air Throne, and stood

on tiptoe in Odin's very seat. It was a clear evening, and I had,

perhaps, better not even try to tell you what Frey saw.

He looked first all round him over Manheim, where the rosy light of the

set sun still lingered, and where men, and birds, and flowers were

gathering themselves up for their night's repose; then he glanced

towards the heavenly hills where Bifroest rested, and then towards the

shadowy land which deepened down into Niflheim. At length he turned his

eyes northward to the misty land of Joetunheim. There the shades of

evening had already fallen; but from his high place Frey could still see

distinct shapes moving about through the gloom. Strange and monstrous

shapes they were, and Frey stood a little higher, on tiptoe, that he

might look further after them. In this position he could just descry a

tall house standing on a hill in the very middle of Joetunheim. While he

looked at it a maiden came and lifted up her arms to undo the latch of

the door. It was dusk in Joetunheim; but when this maiden lifted up her

white arms, such a dazzling reflection came from them, that Joetunheim,

and the sky, and all the sea were flooded with clear light. For a moment

everything could be distinctly seen; but Frey saw nothing but the face

of the maiden with the uplifted arms; and when she had entered the house

and shut the door after her, and darkness fell again on earth, and sky,

and sea,--darkness fell, too, upon Frey's heart.

PART II

THE GIFT

The next morning, when the little elves awoke up with the dawn, and came

thronging round their king to receive his commands, they were surprised

to see that he had changed since they last saw him.

"He has grown up in the night," they whispered one to another

sorrowfully. And in truth he was no longer so fit a teacher and

playfellow for the merry little people as he had been a few hours

before.

It was to no purpose that the sweet winds blew, and the flowers opened,

when Frey came forth from his chamber. A bright white light still danced

before him, and nothing now seemed to him worth looking at. That evening

when the sun had set, and work was over, there were no stories for the

light elves.

"Be still," Frey said, when they pressed round. "If you will be still

and listen, there are stories enough to be heard better than mine."

I do not know whether the elves heard anything; but to Frey it seemed

that flowers, and birds, and winds, and the whispering rivers, united

that day in singing one song, which he never wearied of hearing. "We are

fair," they said; "but there is nothing in the whole world so fair as

Gerda, the giant-maiden whom you saw last night in Joetunheim."

"Frey has dew-drops in his eyes," the little elves said to each other in

whispers as they sat round looking up at him, and they felt very much

surprised; for only to men and the Aesir is it permitted to be sorrowful

and weep. Soon, however, wiser people noticed the change that had come

over the summer-king, and his good-natured father, Nioerd, sent Skirnir

one day into Alfheim to inquire into the cause of Frey's sorrow.

He found him walking alone in a shady place, and Frey was glad enough to

tell his trouble to his wise friend.

When he had related the whole story, he said, "And now you will see that

there is no use in asking me to be merry as I used to be; for how can I

ever be happy in Alfheim, and enjoy the summer and sunshine, while my

dear Gerda, whom I love, is living in a dark, cold land, among cruel

giants?"

"If she be really as beautiful and beloved as you say," answered

Skirnir, "she must be sadly out of place in Joetunheim. Why do not you

ask her to be your wife, and live with you in Alfheim?"

"That would I only too gladly do," answered Frey; "but if I were to

leave Alfheim only for a few hours, the cruel giant Ryme,--the Frost

Giant--would rush in to take my place; all the labors of the year would

be undone in a night, and the poor, toiling men, who are watching for

the harvest, would wake some morning to find their corn fields and

orchards buried in snow."

"Well," said Skirnir, thoughtfully, "I am neither so strong nor so

beautiful as you, Frey; but, if you will give me the sword that hangs by

your side, I will undertake the journey to Joetunheim; and I will speak

in such a way of you, and of Alfheim, to the lovely Gerda, that she

will gladly leave her land and the house of her giant-father to come to

you."

Now, Frey's sword was a gift, and he knew well enough that he ought not

to part with it, or trust it in any hands but his own; and yet how could

he expect Skirnir to risk all the dangers of Joetunheim for any less

recompense than an enchanted sword? And what other hope had he of ever

seeing his dear Gerda again?

He did not allow himself a moment to think of the choice he was making.

He unbuckled his sword from his side and put it into Skirnir's hands;

and then he turned rather pettishly away, and threw himself down on a

mossy bank under a tree.

"You will be many days in traveling to Joetunheim," he said, "and all

that time I shall be miserable."

Skirnir was too sensible to think this speech worth answering. He took a

hasty farewell of Frey, and prepared to set off on his journey; but,

before he left the hill, he chanced to see the reflection of Frey's face

in a little pool of water that lay near. In spite of its sorrowful

expression, it was as beautiful as the woods are in full summer, and a

clever thought came into Skirnir's mind. He stooped down, without Frey's

seeing him, and, with cunning touch, stole the picture out of the water;

then he fastened it up carefully in his silver drinking-horn, and,

hiding it in his mantle, he mounted his horse and rode towards

Joetunheim, secure of succeeding in his mission, since he carried a

matchless sword to conquer the giant, and a matchless picture to win the

maiden.

PART III

FAIREST GERDA

The house of Gymir, Gerda's father, stood in the middle of Joetunheim, so

it will not be difficult for you to imagine what a toilsome and wondrous

journey Skirnir had. He was a brave hero, and he rode a brave horse;

but, when they came to the barrier of murky flame that surrounds

Joetunheim, a shudder came over both.

"Dark it is without," said Skirnir to his horse, "and you and I must

leap through flame, and go over hoar mountains among Giant Folk. The

giants will take us both, or we shall return victorious together." Then

he patted his horse's neck, and touched him with his armed heel, and

with one bound he cleared the barrier, and his hoofs rang on the frozen

land.

Their first day's journey was through the land of the Frost Giants,

whose prickly touch kills, and whose breath is sharper than swords. Then

they passed through the dwellings of the horse-headed and vulture-headed

giants--monsters terrible to see. Skirnir hid his face, and the horse

flew along swifter than the wind.

On the evening of the third day they reached Gymir's house. Skirnir rode

round it nine times; but though there were twenty doors, he could find

no entrance; for fierce three-headed dogs guarded every doorway.

At length he saw a herdsman pass near, and he rode up and asked him how

it was possible for a stranger to enter Gymir's house, or get a sight of

his fair daughter Gerda.

"Are you doomed to death, or are you already a dead man," answered the

herdsman, "that you talk of seeing Gymir's fair daughter, or entering a

house from which no one ever returns?"

"My death is fixed for one day," said Skirnir, in answer, and his voice,

the voice of an Asa, sounded loud and clear through the misty air of

Joetunheim. It reached the ears of the fair Gerda as she sat in her

chamber with her maidens.

"What is that noise of noises," she said, "that I hear? The earth shakes

with it, and all Gymir's halls tremble."

Then one of the maidens got up, and peeped out of the window. "I see a

man," she said; "he has dismounted from his horse, and he is fearlessly

letting it graze before the door."

"Go out and bring him in stealthily, then," said Gerda; "I must again

hear him speak; for his voice is sweeter than the ringing of bells."

So the maiden rose, and opened the house-door softly, lest the grim

giant, Gymir, who was drinking mead in the banquet-hall with seven other

giants, should hear and come forth.

Skirnir heard the door open, and understanding the maiden's sign, he

entered with stealthy steps, and followed her to Gerda's chamber. As

soon as he entered the doorway the light from her face shone upon him,

and he no longer wondered that Frey had given up his sword.

"Are you the son of an Asa, or an Alf, or of a wise Van?" asked Gerda;

"and why have you come through flame and snow to visit our halls?"

Then Skirnir came forward and knelt at Gerda's feet, and gave his

message, and spoke as he had promised to speak of Van Frey and of

Alfheim.

Gerda listened; and it was pleasant enough to talk to her, looking into

her bright face; but she did not seem to understand much of what he

said.

He promised to give her eleven golden apples from Iduna's grove if she

would go with him, and that she should have the magic ring Draupnir from

which every day a still fairer jewel fell. But he found there was no use

in talking of beautiful things to one who had never in all her life seen

anything beautiful. Gerda smiled at him as a child smiles at a fairy

tale.

At length he grew angry. "If you are so childish, maiden," he said,

"that you can believe only what you have seen, and have no thought of

Aesirland or the Aesir, then sorrow and utter darkness shall fall upon

you; you shall live alone on the Eagle Mount turned towards Hel. Terrors

shall beset you; weeping shall be your lot. Men and Aesir will hate you,

and you shall be doomed to live for ever with the Frost Giant, Ryme, in

whose cold arms you will wither away like a thistle on a house-top."

"Gently," said Gerda, turning away her bright head, and sighing. "How am

I to blame? You make such a talk of your Aesir and your Aesir; but how

can I know about it, when all my life long I have lived with giants?"

At these words, Skirnir rose as if he would have departed, but Gerda

called him back. "You must drink a cup of mead," she said, "in return

for your sweet-sounding words."

Skirnir heard this gladly, for now he knew what he would do. He took the

cup from her hand, drank off the mead, and, before he returned it, he

contrived cleverly to pour in the water from his drinking-horn, on which

Frey's image was painted; then he put the cup into Gerda's hand, and

bade her look.

She smiled as she looked; and the longer she looked, the sweeter grew

her smile; for she looked for the first time on a face that loved her,

and many things became clear to her that she had never understood

before. Skirnir's words were no longer like fairy tales. She could now

believe in Aesirland, and in all beautiful things.

"Go back to your master," she said, at last, "and tell him that in nine

days I will meet him in the warm wood Barri."

After hearing these joyful words, Skirnir made haste to take leave, for

every moment that he lingered in the giant's house he was in danger. One

of Gerda's maidens conducted him to the door, and he mounted his horse

again, and rode from Joetunheim with a glad heart.

PART IV

THE WOOD BARRI

When Skirnir got back to Alfheim, and told Gerda's answer to Frey, he

was disappointed to find that his master did not immediately look as

bright and happy as he expected.

"Nine days!" he said; "but how can I wait nine days? One day is long,

and three days are very long, but 'nine days' might as well be a whole

year."

I have heard children say such things when one tells them to wait for a

new toy.

Skirnir and old Nioerd only laughed at it; but Freyja and all the ladies

of Asgard made a journey to Alfheim, when they heard the story, to

comfort Frey, and hear all the news about the wedding.

"Dear Frey," they said, "it will never do to lie still here, sighing

under a tree. You are quite mistaken about the time being long; it is

hardly long enough to prepare the marriage presents, and talk over the

wedding. You have no idea how busy we are going to be; everything in

Alfheim will have to be altered a little."

At these words Frey really did lift up his head, and wake up from his

musings. He looked, in truth, a little frightened at the thought; but,

when all the Asgard ladies were ready to work for his wedding, how could

he make any objection? He was not allowed to have much share in the

business himself; but he had little time, during the nine days, to

indulge in private thought, for never before was there such a commotion

in Alfheim. The ladies found so many things that wanted overlooking, and

the little light elves were not of the slightest use to any one. They

forgot all their usual tasks, and went running about through groves and

fields, and by the sedgy banks of rivers, peering into earth-holes, and

creeping down into flower-cups and empty snail-shells, every one hoping

to find a gift for Gerda.

Some stole the light from glowworms' tails, and wove it into a necklace,

and others pulled the ruby spots from cowslip leaves, to set with jewels

the acorn cups that Gerda was to drink from; while the swiftest runners

chased the butterflies, and pulled feathers from their wings to make

fans and bonnet-plumes.

All the work was scarcely finished when the ninth day came, and Frey set

out from Alfheim with all his elves, to the warm wood Barri.

The Aesir joined him on the way, and they made, together, something like

a wedding procession. First came Frey in his chariot, drawn by Golden

Bristles, and carrying in his hand the wedding ring, which was none

other than Draupnir, the magic ring of which so many stories are told.

Odin and Frigga followed with their wedding gift, the Ship Skidbladnir,

in which all the Aesir could sit and sail, though it could afterwards be

folded up so small that you might carry it in your hand.

Then came Iduna, with eleven golden apples in a basket on her fair head,

and then two and two all the heroes and ladies with their gifts.

All round them flocked the elves, toiling under the weight of their

offerings. It took twenty little people to carry one gift, and yet there

was not one so large as a baby's finger. Laughing, and singing, and

dancing, they entered the warm wood, and every summer flower sent a

sweet breath after them. Everything on earth smiled on the wedding-day

of Frey and Gerda, only--when it was all over, and every one had gone

home, and the moon shone cold into the wood--it seemed as if the Vanir

spoke to one another.

"Odin," said one voice, "gave his eye for wisdom, and we have seen that

it was well done."

"Frey," answered the other, "has given his sword for happiness. It may

be well to be unarmed while the sun shines and bright days last; but

when Ragnaroek has come, and the sons of Muspell ride down to the last

fight, will not Frey regret his sword?"

268

Balder represented sunlight. He was a son of

Odin. If we try to imagine how welcome the

sunlight of spring must have been to the Norse

folk after the long Arctic night of winter, we

may understand why everything in the world,

except the evil Loke, was willing to weep in

order to bring Balder back from Helheim. Some

knowledge of the geography of Norse mythology

will aid the reader in understanding the myth

of Balder. Far below Asgard, the home of the

gods, was Niflheim, the region of cold and

darkness. Here in a deep cavern was Helheim,

the city of the dead, over which Hel ruled.

Midway between Asgard and Niflheim was Midgard,

the earth. The whole universe was supported by

Ygdrasil, a wonderful ash-tree, one root of

which extended into Midgard, one into

Joetunheim, and one into Niflheim.

"Balder is another figure of that radiant type

to which belong all bright and genial heroes,

righters of wrong, blazing to consume evil,

gentle and strong to uplift weakness: Apollo,

Hercules, Perseus, Achilles, Sigard, St.

George, and many another." Balder has been a

favorite subject for poetic treatment, perhaps

to best effect in Matthew Arnold's dignified

"Balder Dead."

THE DEATH OF BALDER

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

There was one shadow which always fell over Asgard. Sometimes in the

long years the gods almost forgot it, it lay so far off, like a dim

cloud in a clear sky; but Odin saw it deepen and widen as he looked out

into the universe, and he knew that the last great battle would surely

come, when the gods themselves would be destroyed and a long twilight

would rest on all the worlds; and now the day was close at hand.

Misfortunes never come singly to men, and they did not to the gods.

Idun, the beautiful goddess of youth, whose apples were the joy of all

Asgard, made a resting place for herself among the massive branches of

Ygdrasil, and there every evening came Brage, and sang so sweetly that

the birds stopped to listen, and even the Norns, those implacable

sisters at the foot of the tree, were softened by the melody. But

poetry cannot change the purposes of fate, and one evening no song was

heard of Brage or birds, the leaves of the world-tree hung withered and

lifeless on the branches, and the fountain from which they had daily

been sprinkled was dry at last. Idun had fallen into the dark valley of

death, and when Brage, Heimdal, and Loke went to question her about the

future she could answer them only with tears. Brage would not leave his

beautiful wife alone amid the dim shades that crowded the dreary valley,

and so youth and genius vanished out of Asgard forever.

Balder was the most god-like of all the gods, because he was the purest

and the best. Wherever he went his coming was like the coming of

sunshine, and all the beauty of summer was but the shining of his face.

When men's hearts were white like the light, and their lives clear as

the day, it was because Balder was looking down upon them with those

soft, clear eyes that were open windows to the soul of God. He had

always lived in such a glow of brightness that no darkness had ever

touched him; but one morning, after Idun and Brage had gone, Balder's

face was sad and troubled. He walked slowly from room to room in his

palace Breidablik, stainless as the sky when April showers have swept

across it because no impure thing had ever crossed the threshold, and

his eyes were heavy with sorrow. In the night terrible dreams had broken

his sleep, and made it a long torture. The air seemed to be full of

awful changes for him, and for all the gods. He knew in his soul that

the shadow of the last great day was sweeping on; as he looked out and

saw the worlds lying in light and beauty, the fields yellow with waving

grain, the deep fiords flashing back the sunbeams from their clear

depths, the verdure clothing the loftiest mountains, and knew that over

all this darkness and desolation would come, with silence of reapers and

birds, with fading of leaf and flower, a great sorrow fell on his heart.

Balder could bear the burden no longer. He went out, called all the gods

together, and told them the terrible dreams of the night. Every face was

heavy with care. The death of Balder would be like the going out of the

sun, and after a long, sad council the gods resolved to protect him from

harm by pledging all things to stand between him and any hurt. So Frigg,

his mother, went forth and made everything promise, on a solemn oath,

not to injure her son. Fire, iron, all kinds of metal, every sort of

stone, trees, earth, diseases, birds, beasts, snakes, as the anxious

mother went to them, solemnly pledged themselves that no harm should

come near Balder. Everything promised, and Frigg thought she had driven

away the cloud; but fate was stronger than her love, and one little

shrub had not sworn.

Odin was not satisfied even with these precautions, for whichever way he

looked the shadow of a great sorrow spread over the worlds. He began to

feel as if he were no longer the greatest of the gods, and he could

almost hear the rough shouts of the frost-giants crowding the rainbow

bridge on their way into Asgard. When trouble comes to men it is hard to

bear, but to a god who had so many worlds to guide and rule it was a new

and terrible thing. Odin thought and thought until he was weary, but no

gleam of light could he find anywhere; it was thick darkness

everywhere.

At last he could bear the suspense no longer, and saddling his horse he

rode sadly out of Asgard to Niflheim, the home of Hel, whose face was as

the face of death itself. As he drew near the gates, a monstrous dog

came out and barked furiously, but Odin rode a little eastward of the

shadowy gates to the grave of a wonderful prophetess. It was a cold,

gloomy place, and the soul of the great god was pierced with a feeling

of hopeless sorrow as he dismounted from Sleipner, and bending over the

grave began to chant weird songs, and weave magical charms over it. When

he had spoken those wonderful words which could waken the dead from

their sleep, there was an awful silence for a moment, and then a faint

ghost-like voice came from the grave.

"Who art thou?" it said. "Who breaketh the silence of death, and calleth

the sleeper out of her long slumbers? Ages ago I was laid at rest here,

snow and rain have fallen upon me through myriad years; why dost thou

disturb me?"

"I am Vegtam," answered Odin, "and I come to ask why the couches of Hel

are hung with gold and the benches strewn with shining rings?"

"It is done for Balder," answered the awful voice; "ask me no more."

Odin's heart sank when he heard these words; but he was determined to

know the worst.

"I will ask thee until I know all. Who shall strike the fatal blow?"

"If I must, I must," moaned the prophetess. "Hoder shall smite his

brother Balder and send him down to the dark home of Hel. The mead is

already brewed for Balder, and the despair draweth near."

Then Odin, looking into the future across the open grave, saw all the

days to come.

"Who is this," he said, seeing that which no mortal could have

seen,--"who is this that will not weep for Balder?"

Then the prophetess knew that it was none other than the greatest of the

gods who had called her up.

"Thou are not Vegtam," she exclaimed, "thou art Odin himself, the king

of men."

"And thou," answered Odin angrily, "art no prophetess, but the mother of

three giants."

"Ride home, then, and exult in what thou hast discovered," said the dead

woman. "Never shall my slumbers be broken again until Loke shall burst

his chains and the great battle come."

And Odin rode sadly homeward knowing that already Niflheim was making

itself beautiful against the coming of Balder.

The other gods meanwhile had become merry again; for had not everything

promised to protect their beloved Balder? They even made sport of that

which troubled them, for when they found that nothing could hurt Balder,

and that all things glanced aside from his shining form, they persuaded

him to stand as a target for their weapons; hurling darts, spears,

swords, and battle-axes at him, all of which went singing through the

air and fell harmless at his feet. But Loke, when he saw these sports,

was jealous of Balder, and went about thinking how he could destroy him.

It happened that as Frigg sat spinning in her house Fensal, the soft

wind blowing in at the windows and bringing the merry shouts of the gods

at play, an old woman entered and approached her.

"Do you know," asked the newcomer, "what they are doing in Asgard? They

are throwing all manner of dangerous weapons at Balder. He stands there

like the sun for brightness, and against his glory, spears and

battle-axes fall powerless to the ground. Nothing can harm him."

"No," answered Frigg, joyfully; "nothing can bring him any hurt, for I

have made everything in heaven and earth swear to protect him."

"What!" said the old woman, "has everything sworn to guard Balder?"

"Yes," said Frigg, "everything has sworn except one little shrub which

is called Mistletoe, and grows on the eastern side of Valhal. I did not

take an oath from that because I thought it too young and weak."

When the old woman heard this a strange light came into her eyes; she

walked off much faster than she had come in, and no sooner had she

passed beyond Frigg's sight than this same feeble old woman grew

suddenly erect, shook off her woman's garments, and there stood Loke

himself. In a moment he had reached the slope east of Valhal, had

plucked a twig of the unsworn Mistletoe, and was back in the circle of

the gods, who were still at their favorite pastime with Balder. Hoder

was standing silent and alone outside the noisy throng, for he was

blind. Loke touched him.

"Why do you not throw something at Balder?"

"Because I cannot see where Balder stands, and have nothing to throw if

I could," replied Hoder.

"If that is all," said Loke, "come with me. I will give you something to

throw, and direct your aim."

Hoder, thinking no evil, went with Loke and did as he was told.

The little sprig of Mistletoe shot through the air, pierced the heart of

Balder, and in a moment the beautiful god lay dead upon the field. A

shadow rose out of the deep beyond the worlds and spread itself over

heaven and earth, for the light of the universe had gone out.

The gods could not speak for horror. They stood like statues for a

moment, and then a hopeless wail burst from their lips. Tears fell like

rain from eyes that had never wept before, for Balder, the joy of

Asgard, had gone to Niflheim and left them desolate. But Odin was

saddest of all, because he knew the future, and he knew that peace and

light had fled from Asgard forever, and that the last day and the long

night were hurrying on.

Frigg could not give up her beautiful son, and when her grief had spent

itself a little, she asked who would go to Hel and offer her a rich

ransom if she would permit Balder to return to Asgard.

"I will go," said Hermod; swift at the word of Odin, Sleipner was led

forth, and in an instant Hermod was galloping furiously away.

Then the gods began with sorrowful hearts to make ready for Balder's

funeral. When the once beautiful form had been arrayed in grave-clothes

they carried it reverently down to the deep sea, which lay, calm as a

summer afternoon, waiting for its precious burden. Close to the water's

edge lay Balder's Ringhorn, the greatest of all the ships that sailed

the seas, but when the gods tried to launch it they could not move it an

inch. The great vessel creaked and groaned, but no one could push it

down to the water. Odin walked about it with a sad face, and the gentle

ripple of the little waves chasing each other over the rocks seemed a

mocking laugh to him.

"Send to Joetunheim for Hyrroken," he said at last; and a messenger was

soon flying for that mighty giantess.

In a little time, Hyrroken came riding swiftly on a wolf so large and

fierce that he made the gods think of Fenris. When the giantess had

alighted, Odin ordered four Berserkers of mighty strength to hold the

wolf, but he struggled so angrily that they had to throw him on the

ground before they could control him. Then Hyrroken went to the prow of

the ship and with one mighty effort sent it far into the sea, the

rollers underneath bursting into flame, and the whole earth trembling

with the shock. Thor was so angry at the uproar that he would have

killed the giantess on the spot if he had not been held back by the

other gods. The great ship floated on the sea as she had often done

before, when Balder, full of life and beauty, set all her sails and was

borne joyfully across the tossing seas. Slowly and solemnly the dead god

was carried on board, and as Nanna, his faithful wife, saw her husband

borne for the last time from the earth which he had made dear to her and

beautiful to all men, her heart broke with sorrow, and they laid her

beside Balder on the funeral pyre.

Since the world began no one had seen such a funeral. No bell tolled, no

long procession of mourners moved across the hills, but all the worlds

lay under a deep shadow, and from every quarter came those who had loved

or feared Balder. There at the very water's edge stood Odin himself, the

ravens flying about his head, and on his majestic face a gloom that no

sun would ever lighten again; and there was Frigg, the desolate mother,

whose son had already gone so far that he would never come back to her;

there was Frey standing sad and stern in his chariot; there was Freyja,

the goddess of love, from whose eyes fell a shining rain of tears;

there, too, was Heimdal on his horse Goldtop; and around all these

glorious ones from Asgard crowded the children of Joetunheim, grim

mountain-giants seamed with scars from Thor's hammer, and frost-giants

who saw in the death of Balder the coming of that long winter in which

they should reign through all the worlds.

A deep hush fell on all created things, and every eye was fixed on the

great ship riding near the shore, and on the funeral pyre rising from

the deck crowned with the forms of Balder and Nanna. Suddenly a gleam of

light flashed over the water; the pile had been kindled, and the flames,

creeping slowly at first, climbed faster and faster until they met over

the dead and rose skyward. A lurid light filled the heavens and shone on

the sea, and in the brightness of it the gods looked pale and sad, and

the circle of giants grew darker and more portentous. Thor struck the

fast burning pyre with his consecrating hammer, and Odin cast into it

the wonderful ring Draupner. Higher and higher leaped the flames, more

and more desolate grew the scene; at last they began to sink, the

funeral pyre was consumed. Balder had vanished forever, the summer was

ended, and winter waited at the doors.

Meanwhile Hermod was riding hard and fast on his gloomy errand. Nine

days and nights he rode through valleys so deep and dark that he could

not see his horse. Stillness and blackness and solitude were his only

companions until he came to the golden bridge which crosses the river

Gjol. The good horse Sleipner, who had carried Odin on so many strange

journeys, had never traveled such a road before, and his hoofs rang

drearily as he stopped short at the bridge, for in front of him stood

its porter, the gigantic Modgud.

"Who are you?" she asked, fixing her piercing eyes on Hermod. "What is

your name and parentage? Yesterday five bands of dead men rode across

the bridge, and beneath them all it did not shake as under your single

tread. There is no color of death in your face. Why ride you hither, the

living among the dead?"

"I come," said Hermod, "to seek for Balder. Have you seen him pass this

way?"

"He has already crossed the bridge and taken his journey northward to

Hel."

Then Hermod rode slowly across the bridge that spans the abyss between

life and death, and found his way at last to the barred gates of Hel's

dreadful home. There he sprang to the ground, tightened the girths,

remounted, drove the spurs deep into the horse, and Sleipner, with a

mighty leap, cleared the wall. Hermod rode straight to the gloomy

palace, dismounted, entered, and in a moment was face to face with the

terrible queen of the kingdom of the dead. Beside her, on a beautiful

throne, sat Balder, pale and wan, crowned with a withered wreath of

flowers, and close at hand was Nanna, pallid as her husband, for whom

she had died. And all night long, while ghostly forms wandered restless

and sleepless through Helheim, Hermod talked with Balder and Nanna.

There is no record of what they said, but the talk was sad enough,

doubtless, and ran like a still stream among the happy days in Asgard

when Balder's smile was morning over the earth and the sight of his face

the summer of the world.

When the morning came, faint and dim, through the dusky palace, Hermod

sought Hel, who received him as cold and stern as fate.

"Your kingdom is full, O Hel!" he said, "and without Balder, Asgard is

empty. Send him back to us once more, for there is sadness in every

heart and tears are in every eye. Through heaven and earth all things

weep for him."

"If that is true," was the slow, icy answer, "if every created thing

weeps for Balder, he shall return to Asgard; but if one eye is dry he

remains henceforth in Helheim."

Then Hermod rode swiftly away, and the decree of Hel was soon told in

Asgard. Through all the worlds the gods sent messengers to say that all

who loved Balder should weep for his return, and everywhere tears fell

like rain. There was weeping in Asgard, and in all the earth there was

nothing that did not weep. Men and women and little children, missing

the light that had once fallen into their hearts and homes, sobbed with

bitter grief; the birds of the air, who had sung carols of joy at the

gates of the morning since time began, were full of sorrow; the beasts

of the fields crouched and moaned in their desolation; the great trees,

that had put on their robes of green at Balder's command, sighed as the

wind wailed through them; and the sweet flowers, that waited for

Balder's footstep and sprang up in all the fields to greet him, hung

their frail blossoms and wept bitterly for the love and the warmth and

the light that had gone out. Throughout the whole earth there was

nothing but weeping, and the sound of it was like the wailing of those

storms in autumn that weep for the dead summer as its withered leaves

drop one by one from the trees.

The messengers of the gods went gladly back to Asgard, for everything

had wept for Balder; but as they journeyed they came upon a giantess,

called Thok, and her eyes were dry.

"Weep for Balder," they said.

"With dry eyes only will I weep for Balder," she answered. "Dead or

alive, he never gave me gladness. Let him stay in Helheim."

When she had spoken these words a terrible laugh broke from her lips,

and the messengers looked at each other with pallid faces, for they knew

it was the voice of Loke.

Balder never came back to Asgard, and the shadows deepened over all

things, for the night of death was fast coming on.

SECTION VII

POETRY

BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. SOME IMPORTANT GENERAL COLLECTIONS

Bryant, William Cullen, _Library of Poetry and Song_.

Child, Francis J., _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_. [Ed.

by Sargent and Kittredge.]

Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _Oxford Book of English Verse_.

Stedman, Edmund Clarence, _An American Anthology_. _A Victorian

Anthology._

Stevenson, Burton E., _The Home Book of Verse_.

The finest single-volume general collection yet

made. It runs to nearly 4,000 pages, but is

printed on thin paper so that the volume is not

unwieldy.

Stevenson, Burton E., _Poems of American History_.

II. COLLECTIONS FOR CHILDREN

Chisholm, L., _The Golden Staircase_.

Grahame, Kenneth, _The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children_.

Henley, William Ernest, _Lyra Heroica_.

Ingpen, Roger, _One Thousand Poems for Children_.

Lang, Andrew, _The Blue Poetry Book_.

Lucas, Edward Verrall, _A Book of Verses for Children_. _Another

Book of Verses for Children._

Olcott, Frances J., _Story Telling Ballads_. _Story Telling Poems

for Children._

Palgrave, Francis T., _The Children's Treasury of Poetry and Song_.

Repplier, Agnes, _A Book of Famous Verse_.

Smith, J. C., _A Book of Verse for Boys and Girls_.

Stevenson, Burton E., _The Home Book of Verse for Young Folks_.

Thacher, Lucy W., _The Listening Child_.

Whittier, John Greenleaf, _Child Life in Poetry_.

Wiggin, K. D., and Smith, N. A., _The Posy Ring_. _Golden Numbers._

III. INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS

Blake, William, _Songs of Innocence_.

Cary, Alice and Phoebe, _Poems for Children_. [In _Complete

Works._]

Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Rhymes and Jingles_.

Field, Eugene, _Songs of Childhood_.

Greenaway, Kate, _Marigold Garden_. _Under the Window._

Lamb, Charles and Mary, _Poetry for Children_.

Lear, Edward, _Nonsense Songs_.

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, _Complete Poetical Works_.

Richards, Laura E., _In My Nursery_.

Riley, James Whitcomb, _Rhymes of Childhood_.

Sherman, Frank Dempster, _Little-Folk Lyrics_.

Stevenson, Robert Louis, _A Child's Garden of Verses_.

Rands, William Brighty, _Lilliput Lyrics_.

Rossetti, Christina G., _Sing-Song_. _Goblin Market_.

Seegmiller, Wilhelmina, _Little Rhymes for Little Readers_.

Tabb, John B., _Poems_.

Taylor, Ann and Jane, _"Original Poems" and Others_. [Ed. by

E. V. Lucas.]

Watts, Isaac, _Divine and Moral Songs_.

Wells, Carolyn, _The Jingle Book_.

SECTION VII. POETRY

INTRODUCTORY

Many teachers have more difficulty in interesting their pupils in poetry

than in any other form of literature. This difficulty may be due to any

one of a number of causes. It may be due to a lack of poetic

appreciation on the part of the teacher, leading to poor judgment in

selecting and presenting poetry. It may be due to the feeling that there

is something occult and mysterious about poetry that puts it outside the

range of common interests, or to the idea that the technique of verse

must in some way be emphasized. The first step in using poetry

successfully with children is to brush away all these and other

extraneous matters and to realize that poetry is in essence a simple and

natural mode of expression, and that all attempts to explain how poetry

does its work may be left for later stages of study. It is not necessary

even for the teacher to be able to recognize and name all the varieties

of rhythm to be able to present poetry enthusiastically and

understandingly. Least of all is it necessary to have a prescribed list

of the hundred "best poems." Some of the best poems for children would

not belong in any such list.

The selections in this section cover a wide variety. They are not all

equally great, but no teacher can fail to find here something suitable

and interesting for any grade. The few suggestions which it is possible

to make in this brief introduction may best, perhaps, and without any

intention of being exhaustive, be thrown into the form of dogmatic

statements:

1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the

material in the following pages, depend upon

some of the fine collections mentioned in the

bibliography. Every teacher should have access

to Stevenson's _Home Book of Verse for Young

Folks_, which contains many poems from recent

writers as well as the older favorites. If

possible, have the advantage of the fine taste

and judgment of the collections made by Andrew

Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many

of the others as are available.

2. Remember that in poetry, more than

elsewhere, one can present only what one is

really interested in and, as a consequence,

enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose

fitness all judges agree should be omitted

rather than run the risk of deadening them for

children by a dead and formal handling.

3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally.

The appeal is first to the ear just as in

music. The teacher should read or, better,

recite the poem in order to get the best

results. There should be no effort at

"elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple,

sincere rendering of the language of the poem.

The more informal the process is, the better.

There should be much repetition of favorite

poems, so that the rich details and pictures

may sink into the mind.

4. There should be great variety in choice that

richness and breadth of impression may thus be

gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in

poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to

ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's

"Yarn of the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but

there is a place for each. Teachers should

always be on the lookout for poetry old or new,

in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can

bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are

often fresh with some timely suggestion and may

prove just what is needed to start some

hesitating pupil to reading poetry.

5. The earliest poetry should be that in which

the music is very prominent and the idea absent

or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother

Goose jingles for little folks is in their

fulfillment of this principle. Use and

encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading

poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually

the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence

as the work proceeds.

6. Children should be encouraged to commit much

poetry to memory. They do this very easily

after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such

memorizing should not be done usually as a

task. Children are, however, very obliging

about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic

about, and what they like they can hold in mind

with surprising ease. The game of giving

quotations that no one else in the class has

given is always a delight. Don't be misled by

the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of

studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing

complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in

doing this in a mechanical fashion.

7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at

one time. Children, as well as grown people,

tire of it more quickly than they do of prose.

The mind seems soon to reach the saturation

point where it is unable to take in any more.

Frequent returns to a poem rather than long

periods of study give the best results.

8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By

example and suggestion help them keep their

minds on the ideas, the pictures, the

characters. Only by doing this can they really

read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read

with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation.

Encourage them to croon or recite the lines

when alone.

9. It is not necessary that children should

understand everything in a poem. If it is worth

while they will get enough of its meaning to

justify its use and they will gradually see

more and more in it as time passes. In fact it

is this constantly growing content of a poem

that makes its possession in memory such a

treasure. Neither should the presence of

difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem

that possesses some large element of accessible

value. Many words are understood by the ear

that are not recognized by sight.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

Books such as Woodberry's _Heart of Man_ and

_Appreciation of Literature_ are of especial

value for getting the right attitude toward

poetry. The most illuminating practical help

would come from consulting the published

lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry

to Japanese students. His problem was not

unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in

the grades. These lectures have been edited by

John Erskine as _Interpretations of Literature_

(2 vols.), _Appreciations of Poetry_, and _Life

and Literature_. The whole philosophy of poetry

is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The

Principles of Poetry," which forms the

introduction to Gayley and Young's _Principles

and Progress of English Poetry_.

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Mrs. Follen (1787-1860) was a rather voluminous

writer and adapter of juvenile material. Her

verses are old-fashioned, simple, and

child-like, and have pleased several

generations of children. While they have no

such air of distinction as belongs to

Stevenson's poems for children, they are full

of the fancies that children enjoy, and deserve

their continued popularity.

THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

Three little kittens lost their mittens;

And they began to cry,

"Oh, mother dear,

We very much fear

That we have lost our mittens."

"Lost your mittens!

You naughty kittens!

Then you shall have no pie!"

"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

"No, you shall have no pie."

The three little kittens found their mittens;

And they began to cry,

"Oh, mother dear,

See here, see here!

See, we have found our mittens!"

"Put on your mittens,

You silly kittens,

And you may have some pie."

"Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,

Oh, let us have the pie!

Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r."

The three little kittens put on their mittens,

And soon ate up the pie;

"Oh, mother dear,

We greatly fear

That we have soiled our mittens!"

"Soiled your mittens!

You naughty kittens!"

Then they began to sigh,

"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

Then they began to sigh,

"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

The three little kittens washed their mittens,

And hung them out to dry;

"Oh, mother dear,

Do not you hear

That we have washed our mittens?"

"Washed your mittens!

Oh, you're good kittens!

But I smell a rat close by;

Hush, hush! Mee-ow, mee-ow."

"We smell a rat close by,

Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."

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THE MOON

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

O look at the moon!

She is shining up there;

O mother, she looks

Like a lamp in the air.

Last week she was smaller,

And shaped like a bow;

But now she's grown bigger,

And round as an O.

Pretty moon, pretty moon,

How you shine on the door,

And make it all bright

On my nursery floor!

You shine on my playthings,

And show me their place,

And I love to look up

At your pretty bright face.

And there is a star

Close by you, and maybe

That small twinkling star

Is your little baby.

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RUNAWAY BROOK

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

"Stop, stop, pretty water!"

Said Mary one day,

To a frolicsome brook

That was running away.

"You run on so fast!

I wish you would stay;

My boat and my flowers

You will carry away.

"But I will run after:

Mother says that I may;

For I would know where

You are running away."

So Mary ran on;

But I have heard say,

That she never could find

Where the brook ran away.

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DING DONG! DING DONG!

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN

Ding dong! ding dong!

I'll sing you a song;

'Tis about a little bird;

He sat upon a tree,

And he sang to me,

And I never spoke a word.

Ding dong! ding dong!

I'll sing you a song;

'Tis about a little mouse;

He looked very cunning,

As I saw him running

About my father's house.

Ding dong! ding dong!

I'll sing you a song

About my little kitty;

She's speckled all over,

And I know you'll love her,

For she is very pretty.

273

Mrs. Prentiss (1818-1878) was the author of

_The Susy Books_, published from 1853 to 1856,

forerunners of many series of such juvenile

publications. The following poem has retained

its hold on the affections of children.

THE LITTLE KITTY

ELIZABETH PRENTISS

Once there was a little kitty

Whiter than snow;

In a barn she used to frolic,

Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie

Ran to and fro;

For she heard the kitty coming,

Long time ago.

Two eyes had little kitty

Black as a sloe;

And they spied the little mousie,

Long time ago.

Four paws had little kitty,

Paws soft as dough;

And they caught the little mousie,

Long time ago.

Nine teeth had little kitty,

All in a row;

And they bit the little mousie,

Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,

Little mouse cried, "Oh!"

But she got away from kitty,

Long time ago.

274

Mrs. Hale (1788-1879), left a widow with five

children to support, devoted herself to a

literary career. She wrote fiction, edited the

_Ladies' Magazine_ of Boston, afterward the

_Ladies' Book_ of Philadelphia, compiled a book

of poetical quotations, and biographies of

celebrated women. Most of her work was

ephemeral in character, and she lives for us in

the one poem that follows. It is usually

printed without the last stanza which is here

restored. Younger children, as a rule, do not

object to such moralizing.

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB

SARA J. HALE

Mary had a little lamb,

Its fleece was white as snow,

And everywhere that Mary went,

The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day,

That was against the rule;

It made the children laugh and play,

To see a lamb at school.

And so the Teacher turned him out,

But still he lingered near,

And waited patiently about,

Till Mary did appear:

And then he ran to her, and laid

His head upon her arm,

As if he said, "I'm not afraid,

You'll save me from all harm."

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?"

The eager children cry--

"Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"

The Teacher did reply.

And you each gentle animal

In confidence may bind,

And make them follow at your will,

If you are only kind.

275

Theodore Tilton (1835-1907) was a very

brilliant New York orator, poet, and

journalist. His poetry, published in a complete

volume in 1897, contains some really

distinguished verse. He is largely known to the

new generation, however, by some stanzas from

the following poem, which are usually found in

readers and poetic compilations for children.

The entire poem is given here. Does our "Swat

the fly" campaign of recent years negate the

kindly attitude emphasized in the poem?

BABY BYE

THEODORE TILTON

Baby bye,

Here's a fly;

Let us watch him, you and I.

How he crawls

Up the walls,

Yet he never falls!

I believe with six such legs

You and I could walk on eggs.

There he goes

On his toes,

Tickling baby's nose.

Spots of red

Dot his head;

Rainbows on his back are spread;

That small speck

Is his neck;

See him nod and beck.

I can show you, if you choose,

Where to look to find his shoes,--

Three small pairs,

Made of hairs;

These he always wears.

Black and brown

Is his gown;

He can wear it upside down;

It is laced

Round his waist;

I admire his taste.

Yet though tight his clothes are made

He will lose them, I'm afraid,

If to-night

He gets sight

Of the candle-light.

In the sun

Webs are spun;

What if he gets into one?

When it rains

He complains

On the window-panes.

Tongue to talk have you and I;

God has given the little fly

No such things,

So he sings

With his buzzing wings.

He can eat

Bread and meat;

There's his mouth between his feet.

On his back

Is a pack

Like a pedler's sack.

Does the baby understand?

Then the fly shall kiss her hand;

Put a crumb

On her thumb,

Maybe he will come.

Catch him? No,

Let him go,

Never hurt an insect so;

But no doubt

He flies out

Just to gad about.

Now you see his wings of silk

Drabbled in the baby's milk;

Fie, oh fie,

Foolish fly!

How will he get dry?

All wet flies

Twist their thighs,

Thus they wipe their head and eyes;

Cats, you know,

Wash just so,

Then their whiskers grow.

Flies have hair too short to comb,

So they fly bareheaded home;

But the gnat

Wears a hat,

Do you believe that?

Flies can see

More than we.

So how bright their eyes must be!

Little fly,

Ope your eye;

Spiders are near by.

For a secret I can tell,--

Spiders never use flies well.

Then away!

Do not stay.

Little fly, good-day!

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