_FIRST READING._
[Illustration]
Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides,
whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but
myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have
entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I
choose to call her Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of any thing else in the
world. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of
that precious metal. If he loved any thing better, or half so well,
it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s
footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he
desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best
thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her
the largest pile of glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together
since the world was made.
Thus he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose.
If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds
of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be
squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet
him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, “Pooh,
pooh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would
be worth the plucking!”
At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they
take care to grow wiser and wiser) Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object
that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large
portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at
the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To
this dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook
himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy.
Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold
coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or
a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners
of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the
dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but
that his treasure would not shine without its help.
And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar,
and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers;
look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished
circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, “O Midas, rich King
Midas, what a happy man art thou!”
Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual,
when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking
up, he beheld the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and
narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face.
Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge
over every thing, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind
of golden brightness in it. Certainly, there was now a brighter gleam
upon all the piled-up treasures than before. Even the remotest corners
had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled,
as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire.
As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and
that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room,
he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than
mortal.
Midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one
of them again. The stranger’s aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and
kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to
suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more probable that
he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be, unless to
multiply his heaps of treasure?
The stranger gazed about the room; and, when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again
to Midas.
“You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!” he observed. “I doubt whether
any other four walls on earth contain so much gold as you have
contrived to pile up in this room.”
“I have done pretty well,--pretty well,” answered Midas, in a
discontented tone. “But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you
consider that it has taken me my whole lifetime to get it together. If
one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!”
“What!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then you are not satisfied?”
Midas shook his head.
“And pray, what would satisfy you?” asked the stranger. “Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know.”
Midas paused and meditated. He felt sure that this stranger, with
such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with
both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now,
therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and
obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come
into his head to ask. So he thought and thought, and thought, and
heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without
being able to imagine them big enough.
At last a bright idea occurred to King Midas.
Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
“Well, Midas,” observed his visitor, “I see that you have at length hit
upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish.”
“It is only this,” replied Midas. “I am weary of collecting my
treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive,
after I have done my best. I wish every thing that I touch to be
changed to gold!”
The stranger’s smile grew so bright and radiant, that it seemed to fill
the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell,
where the yellow autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles
of gold--lie strewn in the glow of light.
“The Golden Touch!” exclaimed he. “You certainly deserve credit, friend
Midas, for striking out so brilliant a fancy. But are you quite sure
that this will satisfy you?”
“How could it fail?” said Midas.
“And will you never regret the possession of it?”
“What could induce me?” asked Midas. “I ask nothing else, to render me
perfectly happy.”
“Be it as you wish, then,” replied the stranger, waving his hand in
token of farewell. “To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself
gifted with the Golden Touch.”
The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas
involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only
one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of
the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.