PART II

[Illustration: MEDEIA AND JASON WITH THE GOLDEN FLEECE]

MYTHS THAT EVERY

CHILD SHOULD KNOW

A SELECTION OF THE CLASSIC MYTHS

OF ALL TIMES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

EDITED BY

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

ILLUSTRATED AND DECORATED

BY BLANCHE OSTERTAG

NEW YORK

Doubleday, Page & Company

1906

NOTE

The editor and publishers wish to express their appreciation of the

courtesy of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Dodd, Mead & Co., and the

Macmillan Company, by means of which they have been enabled to reprint

stories from Hawthorne's "Wonder Book" and "Tanglewood Tales," from "In

the Days of Giants," from "Norse Stories," from Church's "Stories from

Homer," and from Kingsley's "Greek Heroes."

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER

I. THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES

(Hawthorne's "Wonder Book")

II. THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS

(Hawthorne's "Tanglewood Tales")

III. THE CHIMÆRA

(Hawthorne's "Wonder Book")

IV. THE GOLDEN TOUCH

(Hawthorne's "Wonder Book")

V. THE GORGON'S HEAD

(Hawthorne's "Wonder Book")

VI. THE DRAGON'S TEETH

(Hawthorne's "Tanglewood Tales")

VII. THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER

(Hawthorne's "Wonder Book")

VIII. THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN

(Hawthorne's "Wonder Book")

IX. THE CYCLOPS

(Church's "Stories from Homer")

X. THE ARGONAUTS

(Kingsley's "Greek Heroes")

XI. THE GIANT BUILDER

("In Days of Giants")

XII. HOW ODIN LOST HIS EYE

("In Days of Giants")

XIII. THE QUEST OF THE HAMMER

("In Days of Giants")

XIV. THE APPLES OF IDUN

("Norse Stories")

XV. THE DEATH OF BALDER

("Norse Stories")

XVI. THE STAR AND THE LILY

(Miss Emerson's "Indian Myths")

INTRODUCTION

In many parts of the country when the soil is disturbed arrow heads are

found. Now, it is a great many years since arrow heads have been used,

and they were never used by the people who own the land in which they

appear or by their ancestors. To explain the presence of these roughly

cut pieces of stone we must recall the weapons with which the Indians

fought when Englishmen, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, and Spaniards first came to

this part of the world. There may be no authentic history of Indians in

the particular locality in which these old-fashioned weapons come to

light, but their presence in the ground is the best kind of evidence

that Indians once lived on these fields or were in the habit of hunting

over them. In many parts of the country these arrow heads are turned up

in great numbers; museums large and small are plentifully supplied with

them; and they form part of the record of the men who once lived here,

and of their ways of killing game and destroying their enemies. Wherever

there are arrow heads there have been Indians.

Among every people and in every language there are found stories,

superstitions, traditions, phrases, which are not to be explained by the

thoughts or ideas or beliefs of people now living; and the same stories,

superstitions, phrases, are found among people as far apart as those of

Norway and Australia. The people of to-day tell these stories or

remember the superstitions or use the phrases without understanding

where they came from or what they meant when first used. As the ground

in some sections is full of arrow heads that have been buried no one

knows how many centuries, so the poetry we read, the music we hear, the

stories told us when we are children, have come down from a time in the

history of man so early that there are in many cases no other records or

remains of it. These stories vary greatly in details; they fit every

climate and wear the peculiar dress of every country; but it is easy to

see that they are made up of the same materials, and that they describe

the same persons or ideas or things whether they are told in Greece or

India or Norway or Brittany. Wherever they are found they make it

certain that they come from a very remote time and grew out of ideas or

feelings and ways of looking at the world which a great many men shared

in common in many places.

When a man sneezes, people still say in some countries, "God bless you."

They do not know why they say it; they simply repeat what they heard

older people say when they were children, and do not know that every

time they use these words they recall the age when people believed that

evil spirits could enter into a man, and that when a man sneezed he

expelled one of these spirits. It is a very old and widely spread

superstition that when a dog howls at night someone not far away is

dying or will soon die. Many people are uncomfortable when they hear a

dog howling after dark, not because they believe that dogs have any

knowledge that death is present or coming, but because their ancestors

for many centuries believed that the howling of a dog was ominous, and

the habits of our ancestors leave deep traces in our natures.

Now, every time the melancholy howling of a dog at night makes a child

uncomfortable, he recalls the old superstition which identified the

roaring or wailing of the wind with a wolf or dog into which a god or

demon had entered, with power to summon the spirits of men to follow him

as he rushed along in the darkness. In the old homes in the forests,

thousands of years ago, children crowded about the open fire and

trembled when a great blast shook the house, for fear that the gigantic

beast who made the sound would call them and they would be compelled to

follow him. We think of wind as air in motion; they thought of it as the

breath and sound of some living creature. When we say that the wind

"whistled in the keyhole," or "kissed the flowers," or "drove the

clouds" before it, we are using poetically the language our forefathers

used literally.

We speak of "the siren voice of pleasure," "the blow of fate," "the

smile of fortune," and do not remember, often do not know, that we are

recalling that remote past when people believed that there were Sirens

on the coast of Crete whose voices were so sweet that sailors could not

resist them and were drawn on to the rocks and drowned; that fate was a

terrible, relentless, passionless person with supreme power over gods

and men; that fortune was a being who smiled or frowned as men smile or

frown, but whose smile meant prosperity and her frown disaster.

There are few poems which have interested children more than Robert

Browning's "Pied Piper of Hamelin." The story runs that long ago, in the

year 1284, the old German town of Hamelin was so overrun with rats that

there was no peace for the people living in it. When things were at

their worst a strange man appeared in the place and offered, for a sum

of money, to clear it of these pests. The bargain was made and the

stranger began to pipe; and straightway, from every nook and corner in

the old town, the rats came in swarms, followed him to the river Weser

and jumped in and were drowned.

When the people found that the city was really free from rats they were

ungrateful enough to say that the piper had used magic, which was

believed to be the practice of the evil spirit, and refused to carry out

their part of the contract. The stranger went off in a great rage and

threatened to come back again and take payment in his own way. On St.

John's Day, which was a time of great festivity, he suddenly reappeared,

blew a new and beguiling air on his pipe, and immediately every child in

the city felt as if a hand had seized him and ran pell-mell after the

musician as he climbed the mountain, in which a door suddenly opened,

and through that door all, save a lame boy, passed and were never seen

again.

From this old story probably came the proverb about paying the piper;

and it is one of many stories which turn on the magical power of a voice

or a sound to draw men, women, and children to their doom. These very

interesting stories are not like the stories which are made up just to

please people and help them pass away the time; they are different forms

of one story--the story of the wind, told by people who thought that the

wind was not what we call a force but a person, and that when he called

those who heard must follow if he chose; for "the piper is no other than

the wind, and the ancients held that in the wind were the souls of the

dead."

If every time we think of a force we should think of a person, we should

see the world as the men and women who made the myths saw it. Everything

that moved, or made a sound, or flashed out light, or gave out heat was

a person to them; they could not think of the wind rushing through the

trees or the storm devastating the fields without out imagining someone

like themselves, only more powerful, behind the uproar and destruction,

any more than we can see a lantern moving along the road at night

without thinking instinctively that somebody is carrying it.

Our idea of the world is scientific because it is based on exact though

by no means complete knowledge; the myth-makers' idea of the world was

poetic because, with very incomplete knowledge, they could not imagine

how anything could be done unless it was done as they did things. When

the black clouds gather on a summer afternoon and roll up the sky in

great, terrifying masses, and the lightning flashes from them and the

crash of the thunder fills the air and the rain beats down the crops, we

feel as if we were in the laboratory of nature seeing a wonderful

experiment made; when our ancestors saw the same spectacle they were

sure that a great dragon, breathing fire and roaring with anger, was

ravaging the earth. As children to-day imagine that dolls are alive,

that fairies dance in moonlit meadows on summer nights, or beasts or

Indians make the sounds in the woods, so the people who made the myths

filled the world with creatures unlike themselves, but with something of

human intelligence, feeling and will.

As imaginative children personify the sounds they hear, so the men and

women of an early time personified everything that lived or moved or

gave any sign of life. They filled the earth, air, and sea with

imaginary beings who had power over the elements and affected the lives

of men. There were nymphs in the sea, dryads in the trees, kindly or

destructive spirits in the air, household gods who watched over the

home, and greater gods who managed the affairs of the world. When an

intelligent man finds himself in new surroundings, he begins at once to

study them and try to understand them. In every age this has been one of

the greatest objects of interest to men, and every generation has

endeavoured to explain the world, so as to satisfy not only its

curiosity but its reason. The myths were explanations of the world

created by people who had not had time to study that world closely nor

to train themselves to study it in a scientific way. They saw the world

with their imaginations quite as much as with their eyes, and as they

put persons behind every kind and form of life, they told stories about

the world instead of making accurate and matter-of-fact reports of it.

The change of the seasons is not at all mysterious to us; but to the

Norsemen it was a wonderful struggle between gods and giants. In the

summer the gods had their triumph, but in the winter the giants had

their way. Year after year and century after century this terrible

warfare went on until a day should come when, in a last great battle,

both gods and giants would be destroyed and a new heaven and earth

arise. These same brave and warlike men believed that the most powerful

fighter among the gods was Thor, and that it was the swinging and

crashing of his terrible hammer which made the lightning and thunder.

The sun, which vanquished the darkness, put out the stars, drove the

cold to the far north, called back the flowers, made the fields fertile,

awoke men from sleep and filled them with courage and hope, was the

centre of mythology, and appears and reappears in a thousand stories in

many parts of the world, and in all kinds of disguises. Now he is the

most beautiful and noble of the Greek gods, Apollo; now he is Odin, with

a single eye; now he is Hercules, the hero, with his twelve great

labours for the good of men; now he is Oedipus, who met the Sphinx and

solved her riddle. In the early times men saw how everything in the

world about them drew its strength and beauty from the sun; how the sun

warmed the earth and made the crops grow; how it brought gladness and

hope and inspiration to men; and they made it the centre of the great

world story, the foremost hero of the great world play. For the myths

form a poetical explanation of the earth, the sea, the sky, and of the

life of man in this wonderful universe, and each great myth was a

chapter in a story which endowed day and night, summer and winter, sun,

moon, stars, winds, clouds, fire, with life, and made them actors in the

mysterious drama of the world. Our Norse forefathers thought of

themselves always as looking on at a terrible fight between the gods,

who were light and heat and fruitfulness, revealed in the beauty of day

and the splendour of summer, and the giants, who were darkness, cold and

barrenness, revealed in the gloom of night and the desolation of winter.

To the Norseman, as to the Greek, the Roman, the Hindu and other

primitive peoples, the world was the scene of a great struggle, the

stage on which gods, demons, and heroes were contending for supremacy;

and they told that story in a thousand different ways. Every myth is a

chapter in that story, and differs from other stories and legends

because it is an explanation of something that happened in earth, sea,

or sky.

If the men who created the myths had set to work to make wonder tales as

stories are sometimes made to instruct while they entertain children,

they would have left a mass of very dull tales which few people would

have cared to read. They had no idea of doing anything so artificial and

mechanical; they made these old stories because all life was a story to

them, full of splendid or terrible figures moving across the sky or

through the sea and in the depths of the woods, and whichever way they

looked they saw or thought they saw mysterious and wonderful things

going on. They were as much interested in their world as we are in ours;

we write hundreds of scientific books every year to explain our world;

they told hundreds of stories every year to explain theirs.

This selection represents the work of several authors, and does not,

therefore, preserve uniformity of style. It is probably better for the

young reader that the Greek Myths should come from one hand, and the

Norse Myths from another. The classical work of Hawthorne has been

generously drawn upon. No change of any kind has been made in the text,

but the introductions connecting one myth with another have been

omitted.

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE.

Myths That Every Child Should Know

CHAPTER I

THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES

Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the

Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price, by

the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of

nowadays! But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit

on a single tree in the wide world. Not so much as a seed of those

apples exists any longer.

And, even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of

the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted

whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon

their branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have

seen any. Children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to

stories of the golden apple tree, and resolved to discover it, when they

should be big enough. Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver

thing than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit. Many of

them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples. No wonder

that they found it impossible to gather them! It is said that there was

a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of

which were always on the watch, while the other fifty slept.

In my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a

solid golden apple. Had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed

that would be another matter. There might then have been some sense in

trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon.

But, as I have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young

persons, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the

garden of the Hesperides. And once the adventure was undertaken by a

hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the

world. At the time of which I am going to speak, he was wandering

through the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand, and

a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He was wrapt in the skin of

the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he

himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind, and generous,

and noble, there was a good deal of the lion's fierceness in his heart.

As he went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the

right road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew

anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed

at the question, if the stranger had not carried so very big a club.

So he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at

last, he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women

sat twining wreaths of flowers.

"Can you tell me, pretty maidens," asked the stranger, "whether this is

the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?"

The young women had been having a fine time together, weaving the

flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads. And there seemed

to be a kind of magic in the touch of their fingers, that made the

flowers more fresh and dewy, and of brighter hues, and sweeter

fragrance, while they played with them, than even when they had been

growing on their native stems. But, on hearing the stranger's question,

they dropped all their flowers on the grass, and gazed at him with

astonishment.

"The garden of the Hesperides!" cried one. "We thought mortals had been

weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments. And pray,

adventurous traveller, what do you want there?"

"A certain king, who is my cousin," replied he, "has ordered me to get

him three of the golden apples."

"Most of the young men who go in quest of these apples," observed

another of the damsels, "desire to obtain them for themselves, or to

present them to some fair maiden whom they love. Do you, then, love this

king, your cousin, so very much?"

"Perhaps not," replied the stranger, sighing. "He has often been severe

and cruel to me. But it is my destiny to obey him."

"And do you know," asked the damsel who had first spoken, "that a

terrible dragon, with a hundred heads, keeps watch under the golden

apple tree?"

"I know it well," answered the stranger, calmly. "But, from my cradle

upward, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with

serpents and dragons."

The young women looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion's

skin which he wore, and likewise at his heroic limbs and figure; and

they whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who

might reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of other

men. But, then, the dragon with a hundred heads! What mortal, even if he

possessed a hundred lives, could hope to escape the fangs of such a

monster? So kind-hearted were the maidens that they could not bear to

see this brave and handsome traveller attempt what was so very

dangerous, and devote himself, most probably, to become a meal for the

dragon's hundred ravenous mouths.

"Go back," cried they all--"go back to your own home! Your mother,

beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she

do more, should you win ever so great a victory? No matter for the

golden apples! No matter for the king, your cruel cousin! We do not wish

the dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up!"

The stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances. He

carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay

half buried in the earth, near by. With the force of that idle blow, the

great rock was shattered all to pieces. It cost the stranger no more

effort to achieve this feat of a giant's strength than for one of the

young maidens to touch her sister's rosy cheek with a flower.

"Do you not believe," said he, looking at the damsels with a smile,

"that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon's hundred heads?"

Then he sat down on the grass, and told them the story of his life, or

as much of it as he could remember, from the day when he was first

cradled in a warrior's brazen shield. While he lay there, two immense

serpents came gliding over the floor, and opened their hideous jaws to

devour him; and he, a baby of a few months old, had griped one of the

fierce snakes in each of his little fists, and strangled them to death.

When he was but a stripling, he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as

the one whose vast and shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders. The

next thing that he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly sort of

monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads, and

exceedingly sharp teeth in every one.

"But the dragon of the Hesperides, you know," observed one of the

damsels, "has a hundred heads!"

"Nevertheless," replied the stranger, "I would rather fight two such

dragons than a single hydra. For, as fast as I cut off a head, two

others grew in its place; and, besides, there was one of the heads that

could not possibly be killed, but kept biting as fiercely as ever, long

after it was cut off. So I was forced to bury it under a stone, where it

is doubtless alive to this very day. But the hydra's body, and its eight

other heads, will never do any further mischief."

The damsels, judging that the story was likely to last a good while, had

been preparing a repast of bread and grapes, that the stranger might

refresh himself in the intervals of his talk. They took pleasure in

helping him to this simple food; and, now and then, one of them would

put a sweet grape between her rosy lips, lest it should make him bashful

to eat alone.

The traveller proceeded to tell how he had chased a very swift stag for

a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at

last caught it by the antlers, and carried it home alive. And he had

fought with a very odd race of people, half horses and half men, and had

put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly

figures might never be seen any more. Besides all this, he took to

himself great credit for having cleaned out a stable.

"Do you call that a wonderful exploit?" asked one of the young maidens,

with a smile. "Any clown in the country has done as much!"

"Had it been an ordinary stable," replied the stranger, "I should not

have mentioned it. But this was so gigantic a task that it would have

taken me all my life to perform it, if I had not luckily thought of

turning the channel of a river through the stable door. That did the

business in a very short time!"

Seeing how earnestly his fair auditors listened, he next told them how

he had shot some monstrous birds, and had caught a wild bull alive and

let him go again, and had tamed a number of very wild horses, and had

conquered Hippolyta, the warlike queen of the Amazons. He mentioned,

likewise, that he had taken off Hippolyta's enchanted girdle and had

given it to the daughter of his cousin, the king.

"Was it the girdle of Venus," inquired the prettiest of the damsels,

"which makes women beautiful?"

"No," answered the stranger. "It had formerly been the sword belt of

Mars; and it can only make the wearer valiant and courageous."

"An old sword belt!" cried the damsel, tossing her head. "Then I should

not care about having it!"

"You are right," said the stranger.

Going on with his wonderful narrative, he informed the maidens that as

strange an adventure as ever happened was when he fought with Geryon,

the six-legged man. This was a very odd and frightful sort of figure, as

you may well believe. Any person, looking at his tracks in the sand or

snow, would suppose that three sociable companions had been walking

along together. On hearing his footsteps at a little distance, it was no

more than reasonable to judge that several people must be coming. But it

was only the strange man Geryon clattering onward, with his six legs!

Six legs, and one gigantic body! Certainly, he must have been a very

queer monster to look at; and, my stars, what a waste of shoe leather!

When the stranger had finished the story of his adventures, he looked

around at the attentive faces of the maidens.

"Perhaps you may have heard of me before," said he, modestly. "My name

is Hercules!"

"We had already guessed it," replied the maidens; "for your wonderful

deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange, any

longer, that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the

Hesperides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!"

Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty

shoulders, so that the lion's skin was almost entirely covered with

roses. They took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it

about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms that not a

finger's breadth of its oaken substance could be seen. It looked all

like a huge bunch of flowers. Lastly, they joined hands, and danced

around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own accord, and

grew into a choral song, in honour of the illustrious Hercules.

And Hercules was rejoiced, as any other hero would have been, to know

that these fair young girls had heard of the valiant deeds which it had

cost him so much toil and danger to achieve. But still he was not

satisfied. He could not think that what he had already done was worthy

of so much honour, while there remained any bold or difficult adventure

to be undertaken.

"Dear maidens," said he, when they paused to take breath, "now that you

know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of the

Hesperides?"

"Ah! must you go to soon?" they exclaimed. "You--that have performed so

many wonders, and spent such a toilsome life--cannot you content

yourself to repose a little while on the margin of this peaceful river?"

Hercules shook his head.

"I must depart now," said he.

"We will then give you the best directions we can," replied the damsels.

"You must go to the seashore, and find out the Old One, and compel him

to inform you where the golden apples are to be found."

"The Old One!" repeated Hercules, laughing at this odd name. "And, pray,

who may the Old One be?"

"Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure!" answered one of the damsels.

"He has fifty daughters, whom some people call very beautiful; but we do

not think it proper to be acquainted with them, because they have

sea-green hair, and taper away like fishes. You must talk with this Old

Man of the Sea. He is a seafaring person, and knows all about the garden

of the Hesperides, for it is situated in an island which he is often in

the habit of visiting."

Hercules then asked whereabouts the Old One was most likely to be met

with. When the damsels had informed him, he thanked them for all their

kindness,--for the bread and grapes with which they had fed him, the

lovely flowers with which they had crowned him, and the songs and

dances wherewith they had done him honour--and he thanked them, most of

all, for telling him the right way--and immediately set forth upon his

journey.

But, before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after him.

"Keep fast hold of the Old One, when you catch him!" cried she, smiling,

and lifting her finger to make the caution more impressive. "Do not be

astonished at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast, and he will

tell you what you wish to know."

Hercules again thanked her, and pursued his way, while the maidens

resumed their pleasant labour of making flower wreaths. They talked

about the hero long after he was gone.

"We will crown him with the loveliest of our garlands," said they, "when

he returns hither with the three golden apples, after slaying the dragon

with a hundred heads."

Meanwhile, Hercules travelled constantly onward, over hill and dale, and

through the solitary woods. Sometimes he swung his club aloft, and

splintered a mighty oak with a downright blow. His mind was so full of

the giants and monsters with whom it was the business of his life to

fight, that perhaps he mistook the great tree for a giant or a monster.

And so eager was Hercules to achieve what he had undertaken, that he

almost regretted to have spent so much time with the damsels, wasting

idle breath upon the story of his adventures. But thus it always is with

persons who are destined to perform great things. What they have already

done seems less than nothing. What they have taken in hand to do seems

worth toil, danger, and life itself. Persons who happened to be passing

through the forest must have been affrighted to see him smite the trees

with his great club. With but a single blow, the trunk was riven as by

the stroke of lightning and the broad boughs came rustling and crashing

down.

Hastening forward, without ever pausing or looking behind, he by and by

heard the sea roaring at a distance. At this sound, he increased his

speed, and soon came to a beach, where the great surf waves tumbled

themselves upon the hard sand, in a long line of snowy foam. At one end

of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot, where some green

shrubbery clambered up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and

beautiful. A carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with

sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of

the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules espy there but an old

man, fast asleep!

But was it really and truly an old man? Certainly, at first sight, it

looked very like one; but, on closer inspection, it rather seemed to be

some kind of a creature that lived in the sea. For on his legs and arms

there were scales, such as fishes have; he was web-footed and

web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, being of

a greenish tinge, had more the appearance of a tuft of seaweed than of

an ordinary beard. Have you never seen a stick of timber, that has been

long tossed about by the waves, and has got all overgrown with

barnacles, and, at last drifting ashore, seems to have been thrown up

from the very deepest bottom of the sea. Well, the old man would have

put you in mind of just such a wave-tossed spar! But Hercules, the

instant he set eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it could

be no other than the Old One, who was to direct him on his way.

Yes, it was the selfsame Old Man of the Sea whom the hospitable maidens

had talked to him about. Thanking his stars for the lucky accident of

finding the old fellow asleep, Hercules stole on tiptoe toward him, and

caught him by the arm and leg.

"Tell me," cried he, before the Old One was well awake, "which is the

way to the garden of the Hesperides?"

As you may easily imagine, the Old Man of the Sea awoke in a fright. But

his astonishment could hardly have been greater than was that of

Hercules, the next moment. For, all of a sudden, the Old One seemed to

disappear out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the

fore and hind leg! But still he kept fast hold. Then the stag

disappeared, and in its stead there was a sea bird, fluttering and

screaming, while Hercules clutched it by the wing and claw! But the bird

could not get away. Immediately afterward, there was an ugly

three-headed dog, which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped

fiercely at the hands by which he held him! But Hercules would not let

him go. In another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should

appear but Geryon, the six-legged man monster, kicking at Hercules with

five of his legs, in order to get the remaining one at liberty! But

Hercules held on. By and by, no Geryon was there, but a huge snake, like

one of those which Hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a

hundred times as big; and it twisted and twined about the hero's neck

and body, and threw its tail high into the air, and opened its deadly

jaws as if to devour him outright; so that it was really a very terrible

spectacle! But Hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great

snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain.

You must understand that the Old Man of the Sea, though he generally

looked so much like the wave-beaten figurehead of a vessel, had the

power of assuming any shape he pleased. When he found himself so roughly

seized by Hercules, he had been in hopes of putting him into such

surprise and terror, by these magical transformations, that the hero

would be glad to let him go. If Hercules had relaxed his grasp, the Old

One would certainly have plunged down to the very bottom of the sea,

whence he would not soon have given himself the trouble of coming up, in

order to answer any impertinent questions. Ninety-nine people out of a

hundred, I suppose, would have been frightened out of their wits by the

very first of his ugly shapes, and would have taken to their heels at

once. For one of the hardest things in this world is to see the

difference between real dangers and imaginary ones.

But, as Hercules held on so stubbornly, and only squeezed the Old One so

much the tighter at every change of shape, and really put him to no

small torture, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure.

So there he was again, a fishy, scaly, web-footed sort of personage,

with something like a tuft of seaweed at his chin.

"Pray, what do you want with me?" cried the Old One, as soon as he could

take breath; for it is quite a tiresome affair to go through so many

false shapes. "Why do you squeeze me so hard? Let me go this moment, or

I shall begin to consider you an extremely uncivil person!"

"My name is Hercules!" roared the mighty stranger. "And you will never

get out of my clutch until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of

the Hesperides!"

When the old fellow heard who it was that had caught him, he saw with

half an eye that it would be necessary to tell him everything that he

wanted to know. The Old One was an inhabitant of the sea, you must

recollect, and roamed about everywhere, like other seafaring people. Of

course, he had often heard of the fame of Hercules, and of the wonderful

things that he was constantly performing in various parts of the earth,

and how determined he always was to accomplish whatever he undertook. He

therefore made no more attempts to escape, but told the hero how to find

the garden of the Hesperides, and likewise warned him of many

difficulties which must be overcome before he could arrive thither.

"You must go on, thus and thus," said the Old Man of the Sea, after

taking the points of the compass, "till you come in sight of a very tall

giant, who holds the sky on his shoulders. And the giant, if he happens

to be in the humour, will tell you exactly where the garden of the

Hesperides lies."

"And if the giant happens not to be in the humour," remarked Hercules,

balancing his club on the tip of his finger, "perhaps I shall find means

to persuade him!"

Thanking the Old Man of the Sea, and begging his pardon for having

squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey. He met with a

great many strange adventures, which would be well worth your hearing,

if I had leisure to narrate them as minutely as they deserve.

It was in this journey, if I mistake not, that he encountered a

prodigious giant, who was so wonderfully contrived by nature that, every

time he touched the earth, he became ten times as strong as ever he had

been before. His name was Antæus. You may see, plainly enough, that it

was a very difficult business to fight with such a fellow; for, as often

as he got a knock-down blow, up he started again, stronger, fiercer, and

abler to use his weapons than if his enemy had let him alone. Thus, the

harder Hercules pounded the giant with his club, the further he seemed

from winning the victory. I have sometimes argued with such people, but

never fought with one. The only way in which Hercules found it possible

to finish the battle was by lifting Antæus off his feet into the air,

and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing him until, finally, the

strength was quite squeezed out of his enormous body.

When this affair was finished, Hercules continued his travels, and went

to the land of Egypt, where he was taken prisoner, and would have been

put to death if he had not slain the king of the country and made his

escape. Passing through the deserts of Africa, and going as fast as he

could, he arrived at last on the shore of the great ocean. And here,

unless he could walk on the crests of the billows, it seemed as if his

journey must needs be at an end.

Nothing was before him, save the foaming, dashing, measureless ocean.

But, suddenly, as he looked toward the horizon, he saw something, a

great way off, which he had not seen the moment before. It gleamed very

brightly, almost as you may have beheld the round, golden disc of the

sun, when it rises or sets over the edge of the world. It evidently drew

nearer; for, at every instant, this wonderful object became larger and

more lustrous. At length, it had come so nigh that Hercules discovered

it to be an immense cup or bowl, made either of gold or burnished brass.

How it had got afloat upon the sea is more than I can tell you. There it

was, at all events, rolling on the tumultuous billows, which tossed it

up and down, and heaved their foamy tops against its sides, but without

ever throwing their spray over the brim.

"I have seen many giants, in my time," thought Hercules, "but never one

that would need to drink his wine out of a cup like this!"

And, true enough, what a cup it must have been! It was as large--as

large--but, in short, I am afraid to say how immeasurably large it was.

To speak within bounds, it was ten times larger than a great mill wheel;

and, all of metal as it was, it floated over the heaving surges more

lightly than an acorn cup adown the brook. The waves tumbled it onward,

until it grazed against the shore, within a short distance of the spot

where Hercules was standing.

As soon as this happened, he knew what was to be done; for he had not

gone through so many remarkable adventures without learning pretty well

how to conduct himself, whenever anything came to pass a little out of

the common rule. It was just as clear as daylight that this marvellous

cup had been set adrift by some unseen power, and guided hitherward, in

order to carry Hercules across the sea, on his way to the garden of the

Hesperides. Accordingly, without a moment's delay, he clambered over the

brim, and slid down on the inside, where, spreading out his lion's skin,

he proceeded to take a little repose. He had scarcely rested, until now,

since he bade farewell to the damsels on the margin of the river. The

waves dashed, with a pleasant and ringing sound, against the

circumference of the hollow cup; it rocked lightly to and fro, and the

motion was so soothing that it speedily rocked Hercules into an

agreeable slumber.

His nap had probably lasted a good while, when the cup chanced to graze

against a rock, and, in consequence, immediately resounded and

reverberated through its golden or brazen substance, a hundred times as

loudly as ever you heard a church bell. The noise awoke Hercules, who

instantly started up and gazed around him, wondering whereabouts he was.

He was not long in discovering that the cup had floated across a great

part of the sea, and was approaching the shore of what seemed to be an

island. And, on that island, what do you think he saw?

No; you will never guess it, not if you were to try fifty thousand

times! It positively appears to me that this was the most marvellous

spectacle that had ever been seen by Hercules in the whole course of his

wonderful travels and adventures. It was a greater marvel than the hydra

with nine heads, which kept growing twice as fast as they were cut off;

greater than the six-legged man monster; greater than Antæus; greater

than anything that was ever beheld by anybody, before or since the days

of Hercules, or than anything that remains to be beheld by travellers in

all time to come. It was a giant!

But such an intolerably big giant! A giant as tall as a mountain; so

vast a giant that the clouds rested about his midst, like a girdle, and

hung like a hoary beard from his chin, and flitted before his huge eyes,

so that he could neither see Hercules nor the golden cup in which he was

voyaging. And, most wonderful of all, the giant held up his great hands

and appeared to support the sky, which, so far as Hercules could discern

through the clouds, was resting upon his head! This does really seem

almost too much to believe.

Meanwhile, the bright cup continued to float onward, and finally touched

the strand. Just then a breeze wafted away the clouds from before the

giant's visage, and Hercules beheld it, with all its enormous features;

eyes each of them as big as yonder lake, a nose a mile long, and a mouth

of the same width. It was a countenance terrible from its enormity of

size, but disconsolate and weary, even as you may see the faces of many

people, nowadays, who are compelled to sustain burdens above their

strength. What the sky was to the giant, such are the cares of earth to

those who let themselves be weighed down by them. And whenever men

undertake what is beyond the just measure of their abilities, they

encounter precisely such a doom as had befallen this poor giant.

Poor fellow! He had evidently stood there a long while. An ancient

forest had been growing and decaying around his feet; and oak trees, of

six or seven centuries old, had sprung from the acorn, and forced

themselves between his toes.

The giant now looked down from the far height of his great eyes, and,

perceiving Hercules, roared out, in a voice that resembled thunder,

proceeding out of the cloud that had just flitted away from his face.

"Who are you, down at my feet there? And whence do you come in that

little cup?"

"I am Hercules!" thundered back the hero, in a voice pretty nearly or

quite as loud as the giant's own. "And I am seeking for the garden of

the Hesperides!"

"Ho! ho! ho!" roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter. "That is a

wise adventure, truly!"

"And why not?" cried Hercules, getting a little angry at the giant's

mirth. "Do you think I am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads!"

Just at this time, while they were talking together, some black clouds

gathered about the giant's middle, and burst into a tremendous storm of

thunder and lightning, causing such a pother that Hercules found it

impossible to distinguish a word. Only the giant's immeasurable legs

were to be seen, standing up into the obscurity of the tempest; and, now

and then, a momentary glimpse of his whole figure, mantled in a volume

of mist. He seemed to be speaking, most of the time; but his big, deep,

rough voice chimed in with the reverberations of the thunder claps, and

rolled away over the hills, like them. Thus, by talking out of season,

the foolish giant expended an incalculable quantity of breath to no

purpose; for the thunder spoke quite as intelligibly as he.

At last, the storm swept over as suddenly as it had come. And there

again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, and the

pleasant sunshine beaming over his vast height, and illuminating it

against the background of the sullen thunder clouds. So far above the

shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was moistened by the

rain-drops!

When the giant could see Hercules still standing on the seashore, he

roared out to him anew.

"I am Atlas, the mightiest giant in the world! And I hold the sky upon

my head!"

"So I see," answered Hercules. "But, can you show me the way to the

garden of the Hesperides?"

"What do you want there?" asked the giant.

"I want three of the golden apples," shouted Hercules, "for my cousin,

the king."

"There is nobody but myself," quoth the giant, "that can go to the

garden of the Hesperides, and gather the golden apples. If it were not

for this little business of holding up the sky, I would make half a

dozen steps across the sea and get them for you."

"You are very kind," replied Hercules. "And cannot you rest the sky upon

a mountain?"

"None of them are quite high enough," said Atlas, shaking his head. "But

if you were to take your stand on the summit of that nearest one, your

head would be pretty nearly on a level with mine. You seem to be a

fellow of some strength. What if you should take my burden on your

shoulders, while I do your errand for you?"

Hercules, as you must be careful to remember, was a remarkably strong

man; and though it certainly requires a great deal of muscular power to

uphold the sky, yet, if any mortal could be supposed capable of such an

exploit, he was the one. Nevertheless, it seemed so difficult an

undertaking that, for the first time in his life, he hesitated.

"Is the sky very heavy?" he inquired.

"Why, not particularly so, at first," answered the giant, shrugging his

shoulders. "But it gets to be a little burdensome after a thousand

years!"

"And how long a time," asked the hero, "will it take you to get the

golden apples?"

"Oh, that will be done in a few moments," cried Atlas. "I shall take ten

or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again before

your shoulders begin to ache."

"Well, then," answered Hercules, "I will climb the mountain behind you

there and relieve you of your burden."

The truth is, Hercules had a kind heart of his own, and considered that

he should be doing the giant a favour by allowing him this opportunity

for a ramble. And, besides, he thought that it would be still more for

his own glory if he could boast of upholding the sky, than merely to do

so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a hundred heads.

Accordingly, without more words, the sky was shifted from the shoulders

of Atlas and placed upon those of Hercules.

When this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did

was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious spectacle

he was then. Next, lie slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest

that had grown up around it; then, the other. Then, all at once, he

began to caper, and leap, and dance for joy at his freedom; flinging

himself nobody knows how high into the air, and floundering down again

with a shock that made the earth tremble. Then he laughed--Ho! ho!

ho!--with a thunderous roar that was echoed from the mountains, far and

near, as if they and the giant had been so many rejoicing brothers. When

his joy had a little subsided, he stepped into the sea; ten miles at the

first stride, which brought him midleg deep; and ten miles at the

second, when the water came just above his knees; and ten miles more at

the third, by which he was immersed nearly to his waist. This was the

greatest depth of the sea.

Hercules watched the giant as he still went onward; for it was really a

wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles off,

half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall, and misty,

and blue as a distant mountain. At last the gigantic shape faded

entirely out of view. And now Hercules began to consider what he should

do in case Atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were to be stung

to death by the dragon with the hundred heads, which guarded the golden

apples of the Hesperides. If any such misfortune were to happen, how

could he ever get rid of the sky? And, by the by, its weight began

already to be a little irksome to his head and shoulders.

"I really pity the poor giant," thought Hercules. "If it wearies me so

much in ten minutes, how must it have wearied him in a thousand years!"

O my sweet little people, you have no idea what a weight there was in

that same blue sky, which looks so soft and aërial above our heads! And

there, too, was the bluster of the wind, and the chill and watery

clouds, and the blazing sun, all taking their turns to make Hercules

uncomfortable! He began to be afraid that the giant would never come

back. He gazed wistfully at the world beneath him, and acknowledged to

himself that it was a far happier kind of life to be a shepherd at the

foot of a mountain than to stand on its dizzy summit and bear up the

firmament with his might and main. For, of course, as you will easily

understand, Hercules had an immense responsibility on his mind, as well

as a weight on his head and shoulders. Why, if he did not stand

perfectly still, and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be

put ajar! Or, after nightfall, a great many of the stars might be

loosened from their places, and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the

people's heads! And how ashamed would the hero be if, owing to his

unsteadiness beneath its weight, the sky should crack and show a great

fissure quite across it!

I know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he beheld the

huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the sea.

At his nearer approach, Atlas held up his hand, in which Hercules could

perceive three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins, all

hanging from one branch.

"I am glad to see you again," shouted Hercules, when the giant was

within hearing. "So you have got the golden apples?"

"Certainly, certainly," answered Atlas; "and very fair apples they are.

I took the finest that grew on the tree, I assure you. Ah! it is a

beautiful spot, that garden of Hesperides. Yes; and the dragon with a

hundred heads is a sight worth any man's seeing. After all, you had

better have gone for the apples yourself."

"No matter," replied Hercules. "You have had a pleasant ramble, and have

done the business as well as I could. I heartily thank you for your

trouble. And now, as I have a long way to go, and am rather in

haste--and as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden

apples--will you be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders again?"

"Why, as to that," said the giant, chucking the golden apples into the

air twenty miles high, or thereabouts and catching them as they came

down--"as to that, my good friend, I consider you a little unreasonable.

Cannot I carry the golden apples to the king, your cousin, much quicker

than you could? As His Majesty is in such a hurry to get them, I promise

you to take my longest strides. And, besides, I have no fancy for

burdening myself with the sky, just now."

Here Hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders.

It being now twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble out

of their places. Everybody on earth looked upward in affright, thinking

that the sky might be going to fall next.

"Oh, that will never do!" cried Giant Atlas, with a great roar of

laughter. "I have not let fall so many stars within the last five

centuries. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will

begin to learn patience!"

"What!" shouted Hercules, very wrathfully, "do you intend to make me

bear this burden forever?"

"We will see about that, one of these days," answered the giant. "At all

events, you ought not to complain if you have to bear it the next

hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it a good while

longer, in spite of the backache. Well, then, after a thousand years, if

I happen to feel in the mood, we may possibly shift about again. You are

certainly a very strong man, and can never have a better opportunity to

prove it. Posterity will talk of you, I warrant it!"

"Pish! a fig for its talk!" cried Hercules, with another hitch of his

shoulders. "Just take the sky upon your head one instant, will you? I

want to make a cushion of my lion's skin, for the weight to rest upon.

It really chafes me, and will cause unnecessary inconvenience in so many

centuries as I am to stand here."

"That's no more than fair, and I'll do it!" quoth the giant; for he had

no unkind feeling toward Hercules, and was merely acting with a too

selfish consideration of his own ease. "For just five minutes, then,

I'll take back the sky. Only for five minutes, recollect! I have no idea

of spending another thousand years as I spent the last. Variety is the

spice of life, say I."

Ah, the thick-witted old rogue of a giant! He threw down the golden

apples, and received back the sky from the head and shoulders of

Hercules, upon his own, where it rightly belonged. And Hercules picked

up the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins and

straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the

slightest heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed after

him to come back. Another forest sprang up around his feet, and grew

ancient there; and again might be seen oak trees, of six or seven

centuries old, that had waxed thus aged betwixt his enormous toes.

And there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a

mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the thunder

rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of Giant

Atlas, bellowing after Hercules!

CHAPTER II

THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS

Mother Ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter Proserpina, and seldom

let her go alone into the fields. But, just at the time when my story

begins, the good lady was very busy, because she had the care of the

wheat, and the Indian corn, and the rye and barley, and, in short, of

the crops of every kind, all over the earth; and as the season had thus

far been uncommonly backward, it was necessary to make the harvest ripen

more speedily than usual. So she put on her turban, made of poppies (a

kind of flower which she was always noted for wearing) and got into her

car drawn by a pair of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off.

"Dear mother," said Proserpina, "I shall be very lonely while you are

away. May I not run down to the shore, and ask some of the sea nymphs to

come up out of the waves and play with me?"

"Yes, child," answered Mother Ceres. "The sea nymphs are good creatures,

and will never lead you into any harm. But you must take care not to

stray away from them, nor go wandering about the fields by yourself.

Young girls, without their mothers to take care of them, are very apt to

get into mischief."

The child promised to be as prudent as if she were a grown-up woman,

and, by the time the winged dragons had whirled the car out of sight,

she was already on the shore, calling to the sea nymphs to come and

play with her. They knew Proserpina's voice, and were not long in

showing their glistening faces and sea-green hair above the water, at

the bottom of which was their home. They brought along with them a great

many beautiful shells; and, sitting down on the moist sand, where the

surf wave broke over them, they busied themselves in making a necklace,

which they hung round Proserpina's neck. By way of showing her

gratitude, the child besought them to go with her a little way into the

fields, so that they might gather abundance of flowers, with which she

would make each of her kind playmates a wreath.

"Oh, no, dear Proserpina," cried the sea nymphs; "we dare not go with

you upon the dry land. We are apt to grow faint, unless at every breath

we can snuff up the salt breeze of the ocean. And don't you see how

careful we are to let the surf wave break over us every moment or two,

so as to keep ourselves comfortably moist? If it were not for that, we

should soon look like bunches of uprooted seaweed dried in the sun."

"It is a great pity," said Proserpina. "But do you wait for me here, and

I will run and gather my apron full of flowers, and be back again before

the surf wave has broken ten times over you. I long to make you some

wreaths that shall be as lovely as this necklace of many-coloured

shells."

"We will wait, then," answered the sea nymphs. "But while you are gone,

we may as well lie down on a bank of soft sponge, under the water. The

air to-day is a little too dry for our comfort. But we will pop up our

heads every few minutes to see if you are coming."

The young Proserpina ran quickly to a spot where, only the day before,

she had seen a great many flowers. These, however, were now a little

past their bloom; and wishing to give her friends the freshest and

loveliest blossoms, she strayed farther into the fields, and found some

that made her scream with delight. Never had she met with such exquisite

flowers before--violets, so large and fragrant--roses, with so rich and

delicate a blush--such superb hyacinths and such aromatic pinks--and

many others, some of which seemed to be of new shapes and colours. Two

or three times, moreover, she could not help thinking that a tuft of

most splendid flowers had suddenly sprouted out of the earth before her

very eyes, as if on purpose to tempt her a few steps farther.

Proserpina's apron was soon filled and brimming over with delightful

blossoms. She was on the point of turning back in order to rejoin the

sea nymphs, and sit with them on the moist sands, all twining wreaths

together. But, a little farther on, what should she behold? It was a

large shrub, completely covered with the most magnificent flowers in the

world.

"The darlings!" cried Proserpina; and then she thought to herself, "I

was looking at that spot only a moment ago. How strange it is that I did

not see the flowers!"

The nearer she approached the shrub, the more attractive it looked,

until she came quite close to it; and then, although its beauty was

richer than words can tell, she hardly knew whether to like it or not.

It bore above a hundred flowers of the most brilliant hues, and each

different from the others, but all having a kind of resemblance among

themselves, which showed them to be sister blossoms. But there was a

deep, glossy lustre on the leaves of the shrub, and on the petals of the

flowers, that made Proserpina doubt whether they might not be

poisonous. To tell you the truth, foolish as it may seem, she was half

inclined to turn round and run away.

"What a silly child I am!" thought she, taking courage. "It is really

the most beautiful shrub that ever sprang out of the earth. I will pull

it up by the roots, and carry it home, and plant it in my mother's

garden."

Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand, Proserpina

seized the large shrub with the other, and pulled and pulled, but was

hardly able to loosen the soil about its roots. What a deep-rooted plant

it was! Again the girl pulled with all her might, and observed that the

earth began to stir and crack to some distance around the stem. She gave

another pull, but relaxed her hold, fancying that there was a rumbling

sound right beneath her feet. Did the roots extend down into some

enchanted cavern? Then, laughing at herself for so childish a notion,

she made another effort; up came the shrub, and Proserpina staggered

back, holding the stem triumphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep

hole which its roots had left in the soil.

Much to her astonishment, this hole kept spreading wider and wider, and

growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to have no bottom; and

all the while, there came a rumbling noise out of its depths, louder and

louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounding like the tramp of horses'

hoofs and the rattling of wheels. Too much frightened to run away, she

stood straining her eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a team

of four sable horses, snorting smoke out of their nostrils, and tearing

their way out of the earth with a splendid golden chariot whirling at

their heels. They leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all;

and there they were, tossing their black manes, flourishing their black

tails, and curveting with every one of their hoofs off the ground at

once, close by the spot where Proserpina stood. In the chariot sat the

figure of a man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming

with diamonds. He was of a noble aspect, and rather handsome, but looked

sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing his eyes and shading them

with his hand, as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be very

fond of its light.

As soon as this personage saw the affrighted Proserpina, he beckoned her

to come a little nearer.

"Do not be afraid," said he, with as cheerful a smile as he knew how to

put on. "Come! Will not you like to ride a little way with me, in my

beautiful chariot?"

But Proserpina was so alarmed that she wished for nothing but to get out

of his reach. And no wonder. The stranger did not look remarkably

good-natured, in spite of his smile; and as for his voice, its tones

were deep and stern, and sounded as much like the rumbling of an

earthquake under ground as anything else. As is always the case with

children in trouble, Proserpina's first thought was to call for her

mother.

"Mother, Mother Ceres!" cried she, all in a tremble. "Come quickly and

save me."

But her voice was too faint for her mother to hear. Indeed, it is most

probable that Ceres was then a thousand miles off, making the corn grow

in some far-distant country. Nor could it have availed her poor

daughter, even had she been within hearing; for no sooner did Proserpina

begin to cry out than the stranger leaped to the ground, caught the

child in his arms, and again mounting the chariot, shook the reins, and

shouted to the four black horses to set off. They immediately broke into

so swift a gallop that it seemed rather like flying through the air

than running along the earth. In a moment, Proserpina lost sight of the

pleasant vale of Enna, in which she had always dwelt. Another instant,

and even the summit of Mount Ætna had become so blue in the distance

that she could scarcely distinguish it from the smoke that gushed out of

its crater. But still the poor child screamed and scattered her apron

full of flowers along the way, and left a long cry trailing behind

the chariot; and many mothers, to whose ears it came, ran quickly to see

if any mischief had befallen their children. But Mother Ceres was a

great way off, and could not hear the cry.

As they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe her.

"Why should you be so frightened, my pretty child?" said he, trying to

soften his rough voice. "I promise not to do you any harm. What! You

have been gathering flowers? Wait till we come to my palace, and I will

give you a garden full of prettier flowers than those, all made of

pearls, and diamonds, and rubies. Can you guess who I am? They call my

name Pluto, and I am the king of diamonds and all other precious stones.

Every atom of the gold and silver that lies under the earth belongs to

me, to say nothing of the copper and iron, and of the coal mines, which

supply me with abundance of fuel. Do you see this splendid crown upon my

head? You may have it for a plaything. Oh, we shall be very good

friends, and you will find me more agreeable than you expect, when once

we get out of this troublesome sunshine."

"Let me go home!" cried Proserpina--"let me go home!"

"My home is better than your mother's," answered King Pluto. "It is a

palace, all made of gold, with crystal windows; and because there is

little or no sunshine thereabouts, the apartments are illuminated with

diamond lamps. You never saw anything half so magnificent as my throne.

If you like, you may sit down on it, and be my little queen, and I will

sit on the footstool."

"I don't care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed Proserpina. "Oh,

my mother, my mother! Carry me back to my mother!"

But King Pluto, as he called himself, only shouted to his steeds to go

faster.

"Pray do not be foolish, Proserpina," said he, in rather a sullen tone,

"I offer you my palace and my crown, and all the riches that are under

the earth; and you treat me as if I were doing you an injury. The one

thing which my palace needs is a merry little maid, to run up stairs and

down, and cheer up the rooms with her smile. And this is what you must

do for King Pluto."

"Never!" answered Proserpina, looking as miserable as she could. "I

shall never smile again till you set me down at my mother's door."

But she might just as well have talked to the wind that whistled past

them; for Pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than ever.

Proserpina continued to cry out, and screamed so long and so loudly that

her poor little voice was almost screamed away; and when it was nothing

but a whisper, she happened to cast her eyes over a great, broad field

of waving grain--and whom do you think she saw? Whom but Mother Ceres,

making the corn grow, and too busy to notice the golden chariot as it

went rattling along. The child mustered all her strength, and gave one

more scream, but was out of sight before Ceres had time to turn her

head.

King Pluto had taken a road which now began to grow excessively gloomy.

It was bordered on each side with rocks and precipices, between which

the rumbling of the chariot wheels was reverberated with a noise like

rolling thunder. The trees and bushes that grew in the crevices of the

rocks had very dismal foliage; and by and by, although it was hardly

noon, the air became obscured with a gray twilight. The black horses had

rushed along so swiftly that they were already beyond the limits of the

sunshine. But the duskier it grew, the more did Pluto's visage assume an

air of satisfaction. After all, he was not an ill-looking person,

especially when he left off twisting his features into a smile that did

not belong to them. Proserpina peeped at his face through the gathering

dusk, and hoped that he might not be so very wicked as she at first

thought him.

"Ah, this twilight is truly refreshing," said King Pluto, "after being

so tormented with that ugly and impertinent glare of the sun. How much

more agreeable is lamp-light or torchlight, more particularly when

reflected from diamonds! It will be a magnificent sight when we get to

my palace."

"Is it much farther?" asked Proserpina. "And will you carry me back when

I have seen it?"

"We will talk of that by and by," answered Pluto. "We are just entering

my dominions. Do you see that tall gateway before us? When we pass those

gates, we are at home. And there lies my faithful mastiff at the

threshold. Cerberus! Cerberus! Come hither, my good dog!"

So saying, Pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped the chariot right

between the tall, massive pillars of the gateway. The mastiff of which

he had spoken got up from the threshold and stood on his hinder legs, so

as to put his fore paws on the chariot wheel. But, my stars, what a

strange dog it was! Why, he was a big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with

three separate heads, and each of them fiercer than the two others; but,

fierce as they were, King Pluto patted them all. He seemed as fond of

his three-headed dog as if it had been a sweet little spaniel with

silken ears and curly hair. Cerberus, on the other hand, was evidently

rejoiced to see his master, and expressed his attachment, as other dogs

do, by wagging his tail at a great rate. Proserpina's eyes being drawn

to it by its brisk motion, she saw that this tail was neither more nor

less than a live dragon, with fiery eyes, and fangs that had a very

poisonous aspect. And while the three-headed Cerberus was fawning so

lovingly on King Pluto, there was the dragon tail wagging against its

will, and looking as cross and ill-natured as you can imagine, on its

own separate account.

"Will the dog bite me?" asked Proserpina, shrinking closer to Pluto.

"What an ugly creature he is!"

"Oh, never fear," answered her companion. "He never harms people, unless

they try to enter my dominions without being sent for, or to get away

when I wish to keep them here. Down, Cerberus! Now, my pretty

Proserpina, we will drive on."

On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed greatly pleased to find

himself once more in his own kingdom. He drew Proserpina's attention to

the rich veins of gold that were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed

to several places where one stroke of a pickaxe would loosen a bushel of

diamonds. All along the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems which

would have been of inestimable value above ground, but which were here

reckoned of the meaner sort and hardly worth a beggar's stooping for.

Not far from the gateway they came to a bridge which seemed to be built

of iron, Pluto stopped the chariot, and bade Proserpina look at the

stream which was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in her life had she

beheld so torpid, so black, so muddy looking a stream: its waters

reflected no images of anything that was on the banks, and it moved as

sluggishly as if it had quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and

had rather stagnate than flow either one way or the other.

"This is the river Lethe," observed King Pluto. "Is it not a very

pleasant stream?"

"I think it a very dismal one," said Proserpina.

"It suits my taste, however," answered Pluto, who was apt to be sullen

when anybody disagreed with him. "At all events, its water has one very

excellent quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget every

care and sorrow that has hitherto tormented them. Only sip a little of

it, my dear Proserpina, and you will instantly cease to grieve for your

mother, and will have nothing in your memory that can prevent your being

perfectly happy in my palace. I will send for some, in a golden goblet,

the moment we arrive."

"Oh no, no, no!" cried Proserpina, weeping afresh. "I had a thousand

times rather be miserable with remembering my mother, than be happy in

forgetting her. That dear, dear mother! I never, never will forget her."

"We shall see," said King Pluto. "You do not know what fine times we

will have in my palace. Here we are just at the portal. These pillars

are solid gold, I assure you."

He alighted from the chariot, and taking Proserpina in his arms, carried

her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace. It

was splendidly illuminated by means of large precious stones of various

hues, which seemed to burn like so many lamps and glowed with a

hundred-fold radiance all through the vast apartment. And yet there was

a kind of gloom in the midst of this enchanted light; nor was there a

single object in the hall that was really agreeable to behold, except

the little Proserpina herself, a lovely child, with one earthly flower

which she had not let fall from her hand. It is my opinion that even

King Pluto had never been happy in his palace, and that this was the

true reason why he had stolen away Proserpina, in order that he might

have something to love, instead of cheating his heart any longer with

this tiresome magnificence. And though he pretended to dislike the

sunshine of the upper world, yet the effect of the child's presence,

bedimmed as she was by her tears, was as if a faint and watery sunbeam

had somehow or other found its way into the enchanted hall.

Pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in

preparing a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things not to fail of

setting a golden beaker of the water of Lethe by Proserpina's plate.

"I will neither drink that nor anything else," said Proserpina. "Nor

will I taste a morsel of food, even if you keep me forever in your

palace."

"I should be sorry for that," replied King Pluto, patting her cheek; for

he really wished to be kind, if he had only known how. "You are a

spoiled child, I perceive, my little Proserpina; but when you see the

nice things which my cook will make for you, your appetite will quickly

come again."

Then, sending for the head cook, he gave strict orders that all sorts

of delicacies, such as young people are usually fond of, should be set

before Proserpina. He had a secret motive in this; for, you are to

understand, it is a fixed law that, when persons are carried off to the

land of magic, if they once taste any food there, they can never get

back to their friends. Now, if King Pluto had been cunning enough to

offer Proserpina some fruit, or bread and milk (which was the simple

fare to which the child had always been accustomed), it is very probable

that she would soon have been tempted to eat it. But he left the matter

entirely to his cook, who, like all other cooks, considered nothing fit

to eat unless it were rich pastry, or highly seasoned meat, or spiced

sweet cakes--things which Proserpina's mother had never given her, and

the smell of which quite took away her appetite, instead of sharpening

it.

But my story must now clamber out of King Pluto's dominions, and see

what Mother Ceres has been about since she was bereft of her daughter.

We had a glimpse of her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving

grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling along the

chariot in which her beloved Proserpina was so unwillingly borne away.

You recollect, too, the loud scream which Proserpina gave, just when the

chariot was out of sight.

Of all the child's outcries, this last shriek was the only one that

reached the ears of Mother Ceres. She had mistaken the rumbling of the

chariot wheels for a peal of thunder, and imagined that a shower was

coming up, and that it would assist her in making the corn grow. But, at

the sound of Proserpina's shriek, she started, and looked about in every

direction, not knowing whence it came, but feeling almost certain that

it was her daughter's voice. It seemed so unaccountable, however, that

the girl should have strayed over so many lands and seas (which she

herself could not have traversed without the aid of her winged dragons),

that the good Ceres tried to believe that it must be the child of some

other parent, and not her own darling Proserpina who had uttered this

lamentable cry. Nevertheless, it troubled her with a vast many tender

fears, such as are ready to bestir themselves in every mother's heart,

when she finds it necessary to go away from her dear children without

leaving them under the care of some maiden aunt, or other such faithful

guardian. So she quickly left the field in which she had been so busy;

and, as her work was not half done, the grain looked, next day, as if it

needed both sun and rain, and as if it were blighted in the ear and had

something the matter with its roots.

The pair of dragons must have had very nimble wings; for, in less than

an hour, Mother Ceres had alighted at the door of her home and found it

empty. Knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting on the

seashore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld

the wet faces of the poor sea nymphs peeping over a wave. All this

while, the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and,

once every half-minute or so, had popped up their four heads above

water, to see if their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw

Mother Ceres, they sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it

toss them ashore at her feet.

"Where is Proserpina?" cried Ceres. "Where is my child? Tell me, you

naughty sea nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?"

"Oh, no, good Mother Ceres," said the innocent sea nymphs, tossing back

their green ringlets and looking her in the face. "We never should dream

of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true; but

she left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the

dry land and gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the

day, and we have seen nothing of her since."

Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say before she

hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighbourhood. But nobody

told her anything that could enable the poor mother to guess what had

become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little

footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a

basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers;

several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot wheels or the

rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain

and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish

nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid

people! It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they

knew, that it was dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she must

seek her daughter elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth,

resolving never to come back until Proserpina was discovered.

In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the

winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the

search more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in which

she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and

looking carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened,

she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers

which grew on the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.

"Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. "Here is

mischief in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of

mine, nor of its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is

therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child."

But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she

might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.

All night long, at the door of every cottage and farmhouse, Ceres

knocked and called up the weary labourers to inquire if they had seen

her child; and they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the threshold, and

answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At the

portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials

hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king

or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to

repose in. And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch

in her hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke

rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody

had seen Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint which

way to seek her. Thus passed the night; and still she continued her

search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even

remembering to put out the torch; although first the rosy dawn, and then

the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin and

pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it

burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and

never was extinguished by the rain or wind in all the weary days and

nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.

It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her

daughter. In the woods and by the streams she met creatures of another

nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary

places, and were very sociable with persons who understood their

language and customs, as Mother Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she

tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and

immediately its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a

beautiful maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of

it, and sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves

sported with the breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels had seen

Proserpina. Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come to

a fountain gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would dabble

with her hand in the water. Behold, up through its sandy and pebbly bed,

along with the fountain's gush, a young woman with dripping hair would

arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres, half out of the water, and

undulating up and down with its ever-restless motion. But when the

mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink out of the

fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these water nymphs had tears

to spare for everybody's grief), would answer, "No!" in a murmuring

voice, which was just like the murmur of the stream.

Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country

people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their

foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gambolled merrily

about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome kind of creature,

but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow when Ceres

inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell. But

sometimes she came suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces

like monkeys and horses' tails behind them, and who were generally

dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When

she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder and make

new merriment out of the lone woman's distress. How unkind of those ugly

satyrs! And once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a

personage named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock and making music

on a shepherd's flute. He, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goat's

feet; but, being acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question

as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey

out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of

Proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild people.

And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and

nights, finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a

withered flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because

she fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand. All

day she travelled onward through the hot sun; and at night, again, the

flame of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she

continued her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.

On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern, within

which (though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been

only a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning

there. It flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not

half light up the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres

was resolved to leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the

entrance of the cave, and lighted it up a little more by holding her own

torch before her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be

a woman, sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of

which had been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it

were) was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her head,

they tell me, was shaped very much like a dog's, and, by way of

ornament, she wore a wreath of snakes around it. But Mother Ceres, the

moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put

all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have a word to say

to other people, unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she

herself delighted to be.

"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this

melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet."

So she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the

dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss,

she had found no other companion.

"O Hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what

sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child

Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"

"No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every

word or two--"no, Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter.

But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way that all cries of

distress and affright, all over the world, are pretty sure to find

their way to them; and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself

very miserable, I heard the voice of a young girl shrieking as if in

great distress. Something terrible has happened to the child, you may

rest assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel

monster, was carrying her away."

"You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. "Where

was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"

"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time,

there was a heavy rumbling of wheels toward the eastward. I can tell you

nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see your

daughter again. The best advice I can give you is to take up your abode

in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the

world."

"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come with your

torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no

more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then,

if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered

leaves or on the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be miserable.

But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I

will not allow myself space even to grieve."

The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the

sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate

Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the sun

shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad

spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally

consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches,

although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight

seemed to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met along the road

could not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once

caught a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her

forehead, they generally thought it prudent to run away without waiting

for a second glance.

As the pair travelled along in this woebegone manner, a thought struck

Ceres.

"There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor child,

and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I think of

him before? It is Phœbus."

"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine?

Oh, pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous

young fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is

such a glare of the sun about him that he will quite blind my poor eyes,

which I have almost wept away already."

"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us

make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phœbus along with it."

Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phœbus, both of them sighing

grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse

lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in

being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it. By and by, after

a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole

world. There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling

ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were

like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so

exceedingly vivid that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering

that he ought to wear a black veil. Phœbus (for this was the very

person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making

its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most

exquisite song, which he had recently composed. For, besides a great

many other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his

admirable poetry.

As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phœbus smiled on

them so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss,

and Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres,

she was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether

Phœbus smiled or frowned.

"Phœbus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to you

for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child

Proserpina?"

"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phœbus,

endeavouring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of

pleasant ideas in his mind that he was apt to forget what had happened

no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very

lovely child, indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did

see the little Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself

perfectly easy about her. She is safe, and in excellent hands."

"Oh, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands and

flinging herself at his feet.

"Why," said Phœbus--and as he spoke, he kept touching his lyre so as

to make a thread of music run in and out among his words--"as the little

damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste

for flowers) she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto and carried off

to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the universe; but

the royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of

architecture, and of the most splendid and costly materials. Gold,

diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious stones will be your

daughter's ordinary playthings. I recommend to you, my dear lady, to

give yourself no uneasiness. Proserpina's sense of beauty will be duly

gratified, and, even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she will lead a

very enviable life."

"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres, indignantly. "What is there

to gratify her heart? What are all the splendours you speak of, without

affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me, Phœbus,

to demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?"

"Pray excuse me," replied Phœbus, with an elegant obeisance. "I

certainly wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so

immediately pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you.

Besides, I am not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell you

the truth, his three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway;

for I should be compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and

those, you know, are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom."

"Ah, Phœbus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have

a harp instead of a heart. Farewell."

"Will not you stay a moment," asked Phœbus, "and hear me turn the

pretty and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?"

But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate.

Phœbus (who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith

began to make an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to

judge of his sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have

been endowed with a very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the

habit of using his heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may

thrum upon them as much as he will, without any great pain to himself.

Accordingly, though Phœbus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all

the while as were the sunbeams amid which he dwelt.

Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but

was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary, looked

more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground there

might have been hopes of regaining her. But now, that the poor child was

shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold

of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of

her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the

darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her to

the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres

answered that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that,

for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance

to King Pluto's dominions. And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried

back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with

a glimpse of her dog's face as she went.

Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her

toilsome way all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the flame

of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned together in

her heart. So much did she suffer that, though her aspect had been quite

youthful when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly

person in a very brief time. She cared not how she was dressed, nor had

she ever thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies which

she put on the very morning of Proserpina's disappearance. She roamed

about in so wild a way, and with her hair so dishevelled, that people

took her for some distracted creature, and never dreamed that this was

Mother Ceres, who had the oversight of every seed which the husband-man

planted. Nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble about seed time

nor harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their own affairs, and

the crops to fade or flourish, as the case might be. There was nothing,

now, in which Ceres seemed to feel an interest, unless when she saw

children at play, or gathering flowers along the wayside. Then, indeed,

she would stand and gaze at them with tears in her eyes. The children,

too, appeared to have a sympathy with her grief, and would cluster

themselves in a little group about her knees, and look up wistfully in

her face; and Ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them

to their homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of

sight.

"For if they do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me, that

the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a liking to your darlings, and

snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away."

One day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to Pluto's

kingdom, she came to the palace of King Celeus, who reigned at Eleusis.

Ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered the portal, and found the

royal household in very great alarm about the queen's baby. The infant,

it seems, was sickly (being troubled with its teeth, I suppose), and

would take no food, and was all the time moaning with pain. The

queen--her name was Metanira--was desirous of finding a nurse; and when

she beheld a woman of matronly aspect coming up the palace steps, she

thought, in her own mind, that here was the very person whom she needed.

So Queen Metanira ran to the door, with the poor wailing baby in her

arms, and besought Ceres to take charge of it, or, at least, to tell her

what would do it good.

"Will you trust the child entirely to me?" asked Ceres.

"Yes, and gladly, too," answered the queen, "if you will devote all your

time to him. For I can see that you have been a mother."

"You are right," said Ceres. "I once had a child of my own. Well; I will

be the nurse of this poor, sickly boy. But beware, I warn you, that you

do not interfere with any kind of treatment which I may judge proper for

him. If you do so, the poor infant must suffer for his mother's folly."

Then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good; for he smiled

and nestled closely into her bosom.

So Mother Ceres set her torch in a corner (where it kept burning all the

while), and took up her abode in the palace of King Celeus, as nurse to

the little Prince Demophoön. She treated him as if he were her own

child, and allowed neither the king nor the queen to say whether he

should be bathed in warm or cold water, or what he should eat, or how

often he should take the air, or when he should be put to bed. You would

hardly believe me, if I were to tell how quickly the baby prince got rid

of his ailments, and grew fat, and rosy, and strong, and how he had two

rows of ivory teeth in less time than any other little fellow, before or

since. Instead of the palest, and wretchedest, and puniest imp in the

world (as his own mother confessed him to be when Ceres first took him

in charge), he was now a strapping baby, crowing, laughing, kicking up

his heels, and rolling from one end of the room to the other. All the

good women of the neighbourhood crowded to the palace, and held up their

hands, in unutterable amazement, at the beauty and wholesomeness of this

darling little prince. Their wonder was the greater, because he was

never seen to taste any food; not even so much as a cup of milk.

"Pray, nurse," the queen kept saying, "how is it that you make the child

thrive so?"

"I was a mother once," Ceres always replied; "and having nursed my own

child, I know what other children need."

But Queen Metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity to know

precisely what the nurse did to her child. One night, therefore, she hid

herself in the chamber where Ceres and the little prince were accustomed

to sleep. There was a fire in the chimney, and it had now crumbled into

great coals and embers, which lay glowing on the hearth, with a blaze

flickering up now and then, and flinging a warm and ruddy light upon the

walls. Ceres sat before the hearth with the child in her lap, and the

fire-light making her shadow dance upon the ceiling overhead. She

undressed the little prince, and bathed him all over with some fragrant

liquid out of a vase. The next thing she did was to rake back the red

embers, and make a hollow place among them, just where the backlog had

been. At last, while the baby was crowing, and clapping its fat little

hands, and laughing in the nurse's face (just as you may have seen your

little brother or sister do before going into its warm bath), Ceres

suddenly laid him, all naked as he was, in the hollow among the red-hot

embers. She then raked the ashes over him, and turned quietly away.

You may imagine, if you can, how Queen Metanira shrieked, thinking

nothing less than that her dear child would be burned to a cinder. She

burst forth from her hiding place, and running to the hearth, raked open

the fire, and snatched up poor little Prince Demophoön out of his bed of

live coals, one of which he was griping in each of his fists. He

immediately set up a grievous cry, as babies are apt to do when rudely

startled out of a sound sleep. To the queen's astonishment and joy, she

could perceive no token of the child's being injured by the hot fire in

which he had lain. She now turned to Mother Ceres, and asked her to

explain the mystery.

"Foolish woman," answered Ceres, "did you not promise to intrust this

poor infant entirely to me? You little know the mischief you have done

him. Had you left him to my care, he would have grown up like a child of

celestial birth, endowed with superhuman strength and intelligence, and

would have lived forever. Do you imagine that earthly children are to

become immortal without being tempered to it in the fiercest heat of the

fire? But you have ruined your own son. For though he will be a strong

man and a hero in his day, yet, on account of your folly, he will grow

old, and finally die, like the sons of other women. The weak tenderness

of his mother has cost the poor boy an immortality. Farewell."

Saying these words, she kissed the little Prince Demophoön, and sighed

to think what he had lost, and took her departure without heeding Queen

Metanira, who entreated her to remain, and cover up the child among the

hot embers as often as she pleased. Poor baby! He never slept so warmly

again.

While she dwelt in the king's palace, Mother Ceres had been so

continually occupied with taking care of the young prince that her

heart was a little lightened of its grief for Proserpina. But now,

having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just as wretched

as before. At length, in her despair, she came to the dreadful

resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a

potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was good for man or

beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her daughter were

restored. She even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody's heart

should be cheered by their beauty.

Now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself

out of the ground without the especial permission of Ceres, you may

conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth. The

husbandmen ploughed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black

furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand. The pastures looked as brown

in the sweet month of June as ever they did in chill November. The rich

man's broad acres and the cottager's small garden patch were equally

blighted. Every little girl's flower bed showed nothing but dry stalks.

The old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had

grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing the

warm smile of summer on its face. It was really piteous to see the poor,

starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres, lowing and

bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect help from her; and

everybody that was acquainted with her power besought her to have mercy

on the human race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow. But Mother

Ceres, though naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now

inexorable.

"Never," said she. "If the earth is ever again to see any verdure, it

must first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming

back to me."

Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend

Quicksilver was sent post haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he might be

persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything right

again by giving up Proserpina. Quicksilver accordingly made the best of

his way to the great gate, took a flying leap right over the

three-headed mastiff, and stood at the door of the palace in an

inconceivably short time. The servants knew him both by his face and

garb; for his short cloak, and his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky

staff had often been seen thereabouts in times gone by. He requested to

be shown immediately into the king's presence; and Pluto, who heard his

voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself with

Quicksilver's merry talk, called out to him to come up. And while they

settle their business together, we must inquire what Proserpina has been

doing ever since we saw her last.

The child had declared, as you may remember, that she would not taste a

mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to remain in King

Pluto's palace. How she contrived to maintain her resolution, and at the

same time to keep herself tolerably plump and rosy is more than I can

explain; but some young ladies, I am given to understand, possess the

faculty of living on air, and Proserpina seems to have possessed it too.

At any rate, it was now six months since she left the outside of the

earth; and not a morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify,

had yet passed between her teeth. This was the more creditable to

Proserpina, inasmuch as King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day

after day with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly preserved fruits,

and delicacies of every sort, such as young people are generally most

fond of. But her good mother had often told her of the hurtfulness of

these things; and for that reason alone, if there had been no other, she

would have resolutely refused to taste them.

All this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the little

damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed. The immense

palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and wonderful

objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true, which half hid

itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before the child as she

wandered among them, and treading stealthily behind her in the echo of

her footsteps. Neither was all the dazzle of the precious stones, which

flamed with their own light, worth one gleam of natural sunshine; nor

could the most brilliant of the many-coloured gems, which Proserpina had

for playthings, vie with the simple beauty of the flowers she used to

gather. But still, wherever the girl went, among those gilded halls and

chambers, it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with

her, and as if she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her

left. After Proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of

stately artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been. The

inhabitants all felt this, and King Pluto more than any of them.

"My own little Proserpina," he used to say, "I wish you could like me a

little better. We gloomy and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm

hearts at bottom as those of a more cheerful character. If you would

only stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than the

possession of a hundred such palaces as this."

"Ah," said Proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you before

carrying me off. And the best thing you can do now is to let me go

again. Then I might remember you sometimes, and think that you were as

kind as you knew how to be. Perhaps, too, one day or other, I might come

back, and pay you a visit."

"No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, "I will not trust you

for that. You are too fond of living in the broad daylight, and

gathering flowers. What an idle and childish taste that is! Are not

these gems, which I have ordered to be dug for you, and which are richer

than any in my crown--are they not prettier than a violet?"

"Not half so pretty," said Proserpina, snatching the gems from Pluto's

hand, and flinging them to the other end of the hall. "Oh, my sweet

violets, shall I never see you again?"

And then she burst into tears. But young people's tears have very little

saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame the eyes so much as

those of grown persons; so that it is not to be wondered at if, a few

moments afterward, Proserpina was sporting through the hall almost as

merrily as she and the four sea nymphs had sported along the edge of the

surf wave. King Pluto gazed after her, and wished that he, too, was a

child. And little Proserpina, when she turned about and beheld this

great king standing in his splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so

melancholy, and so lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity. She ran

back to him, and, for the first time in all her life, put her small soft

hand in his.

"I love you a little," whispered she, looking up in his face.

"Do you, indeed, my dear child?" cried Pluto, bending his dark face down

to kiss her; but Proserpina shrank away from the kiss, for though his

features were noble, they were very dusky and grim. "Well, I have not

deserved it of you, after keeping you a prisoner for so many months, and

starving you, besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there nothing

which I can get you to eat?"

In asking this question, the king of the mines had a very cunning

purpose; for, you will recollect, if Proserpina tasted a morsel of food

in his dominions, she would never afterward be at liberty to quit them.

"No, indeed," said Proserpina. "Your head cook is always baking, and

stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste, and contriving one dish or

another, which he imagines may be to my liking. But he might just as

well save himself the trouble, poor, fat little man that he is. I have

no appetite for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of bread

of my mother's own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden."

When Pluto heard this, he began to see that he had mistaken the best

method of tempting Proserpina to eat. The cook's made dishes and

artificial dainties were not half so delicious in the good child's

opinion as the simple fare to which Mother Ceres had accustomed her.

Wondering that he had never thought of it before, the king now sent one

of his trusty attendants, with a large basket, to get some of the finest

and juiciest pears, peaches and plums which could anywhere be found in

the upper world. Unfortunately, however, this was during the time when

Ceres had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after seeking

all over the earth, King Pluto's servant found only a single

pomegranate, and that so dried up as to be not worth eating.

Nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought this dry,

old, withered pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a magnificent

golden salver, and carried it up to Proserpina. Now it happened,

curiously enough, that, just as the servant was bringing the pomegranate

into the back door of the palace, our friend Quicksilver had gone up the

front steps, on his errand to get Proserpina away from King Pluto.

As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver, she told

the servant he had better take it away again.

"I shall not touch it, I assure you," said she. "If I were ever so

hungry, I should never think of eating such a miserable, dry pomegranate

as that."

"It is the only one in the world," said the servant. He set down the

golden salver, with the wizened pomegranate upon it, and left the room.

When he was gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to the table,

and looking at this poor specimen of dried fruit with a great deal of

eagerness; for, to say the truth, on seeing something that suited her

taste, she felt all the six months' appetite taking possession of her at

once. To be sure, it was a very wretched looking pomegranate, and seemed

to have no more juice in it than an oyster shell. But there was no

choice of such things in King Pluto's palace. This was the first fruit

she had seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see; and unless

she ate it up immediately, it would grow drier than it already was, and

be wholly unfit to eat.

"At least, I may smell it," thought Proserpina.

So she took up the pomegranate, and applied it to her nose; and, somehow

or other, being in such close neighbourhood to her mouth, the fruit

found its way into that little red cave. Dear me! what an everlasting

pity! Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually

bitten it, of their own accord. Just as this fatal deed was done, the

door of the apartment opened, and in came King Pluto, followed by

Quicksilver, who had been urging him to let his little prisoner go. At

the first noise of their entrance, Proserpina withdrew the pomegranate

from her mouth. But Quicksilver (whose eyes were very keen, and his wits

the sharpest that ever anybody had) perceived that the child was a

little confused; and seeing the empty salver, he suspected that she had

been taking a sly nibble of something or other. As for honest Pluto, he

never guessed at the secret.

"My little Proserpina," said the king, sitting down, and affectionately

drawing her between his knees, "here is Quicksilver, who tells me that a

great many misfortunes have befallen innocent people on account of my

detaining you in my dominions. To confess the truth, I myself had

already reflected that it was an unjustifiable act to take you away from

your good mother. But, then, you must consider, my dear child, that this

vast palace is apt to be gloomy (although the precious stones certainly

shine very bright), and that I am not of the most cheerful disposition,

and that therefore it was a natural thing enough to seek for the society

of some merrier creature than myself. I hoped you would take my crown

for a plaything, and me--ah, you laugh, naughty Proserpina--me, grim as

I am, for a playmate. It was a silly expectation."

"Not so extremely silly," whispered Proserpina. "You have really amused

me very much, sometimes."

"Thank you," said King Pluto, rather dryly. "But I can see, plainly

enough, that you think my palace a dusky prison, and me the iron-hearted

keeper of it. And an iron heart I should surely have, if I could detain

you here any longer, my poor child, when it is now six months since you

tasted food. I give you your liberty. Go with Quicksilver. Hasten home

to your dear mother."

Now, although you may not have supposed it, Proserpina found it

impossible to take leave of poor King Pluto without some regrets, and a

good deal of compunction for not telling him about the pomegranate. She

even shed a tear or two, thinking how lonely and cheerless the great

palace would seem to him, with all its ugly glare of artificial light,

after she herself--his one little ray of natural sunshine, whom he had

stolen, to be sure, but only because he valued her so much--after she

should have departed. I know not how many kind things she might have

said to the disconsolate king of the mines, had not Quicksilver hurried

her away.

"Come along quickly," whispered he in her ear, "or His Majesty may

change his royal mind. And take care, above all things, that you say

nothing of what was brought you on the golden salver."

In a very short time they had passed the great gateway (leaving the

three-headed Cerberus barking, and yelping, and growling, with threefold

din, behind them), and emerged upon the surface of the earth. It was

delightful to behold, as Proserpina hastened along, how the path grew

verdant behind and on either side of her. Wherever she set her blessed

foot, there was at once a dewy flower. The violets gushed up along the

wayside. The grass and the grain began to sprout with tenfold vigour

and luxuriance, to make up for the dreary months that had been wasted in

barrenness. The starved cattle immediately set to work grazing, after

their long fast, and ate enormously all day, and got up at midnight to

eat more. But I can assure you it was a busy time of year with the

farmers, when they found the summer coming upon them with such a rush.

Nor must I forget to say that all the birds in the whole world hopped

about upon the newly blossoming trees, and sang together in a prodigious

ecstasy of joy.

Mother Ceres had returned to her deserted home, and was sitting

disconsolately on the doorstep, with her torch burning in her hand. She

had been idly watching the flame for some moments past, when all at once

it flickered and went out.

"What does this mean?" thought she. "It was an enchanted torch, and

should have kept burning till my child came back."

Lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden verdure flashing

over the brown and barren fields, exactly as you may have observed a

golden hue gleaming far and wide across the landscape, from the just

risen sun.

"Does the earth disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres, indignantly. "Does

it presume to be green, when I have bidden it be barren, until my

daughter shall be restored to my arms?"

"Then open your arms, dear mother," cried a well-known voice, "and take

your little daughter into them."

And Proserpina came running, and flung herself upon her mother's bosom.

Their mutual transport is not to be described. The grief of their

separation had caused both of them to shed a great many tears; and now

they shed a great many more, because their joy could not so well express

itself in any other way.

When their hearts had grown a little more quiet, Mother Ceres looked

anxiously at Proserpina.

"My child," said she, "did you taste any food while you were in King

Pluto's palace?"

"Dearest mother," answered Proserpina, "I will tell you the whole truth.

Until this very morning, not a morsel of food had passed my lips. But

to-day, they brought me a pomegranate (a very dry one it was, and all

shrivelled up, till there was little left of it but seeds and skin), and

having seen no fruit for so long a time, and being faint with hunger, I

was tempted just to bite it. The instant I tasted it, King Pluto and

Quicksilver came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel; but--dear

mother, I hope it was no harm--but six of the pomegranate seeds, I am

afraid, remained in my mouth."

"Ah, unfortunate child, and miserable me!" exclaimed Ceres. "For each of

those six pomegranate seeds you must spend one month of every year in

King Pluto's palace. You are but half restored to your mother. Only six

months with me, and six with that good-for-nothing King of Darkness!"

"Do not speak so harshly of poor King Pluto," said Proserpina, kissing

her mother. "He has some very good qualities; and I really think I can

bear to spend six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend the

other six with you. He certainly did very wrong to carry me off; but

then, as he says, it was but a dismal sort of life for him, to live in

that great gloomy place, all alone; and it has made a wonderful change

in his spirits to have a little girl to run up stairs and down. There

is some comfort in making him so happy; and so, upon the whole, dearest

mother, let us be thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year

round."

CHAPTER III

THE CHIMÆRA

Once, in the old, old times (for all the strange things which I tell you

about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out

of a hillside, in the marvellous land of Greece. And, for aught I know,

after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very

selfsame spot. At any rate, there was the pleasant fountain, welling

freshly forth and sparkling adown the hillside, in the golden sunset,

when a handsome young man named Bellerophon drew near its margin. In his

hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with a

golden bit. Seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a little

boy, near the fountain, and likewise a maiden, who was dipping up some

of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might refresh

himself with a draught.

"This is very delicious water," he said to the maiden as he rinsed and

filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it. "Will you be kind enough

to tell me whether the fountain has any name?"

"Yes; it is called the Fountain of Pirene," answered the maiden; and

then she added, "My grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was

once a beautiful woman; and when her son was killed by the arrows of the

huntress Diana, she melted all away into tears. And so the water, which

you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!"

"I should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear

a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the

shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom! And

this, then, is Pirene? I thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its

name. I have come from a far-away country to find this very spot."

A middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the

spring) stared hard at young Bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle

which he carried in his hand.

"The watercourses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the

world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the Fountain of

Pirene. But, pray, have you lost a horse? I see you carry the bridle in

your hand; and a very pretty one it is with that double row of bright

stones upon it. If the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to

be pitied for losing him."

"I have lost no horse," said Bellerophon, with a smile. "But I happen to

be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me,

must be found hereabouts, if anywhere. Do you know whether the winged

horse Pegasus still haunts the Fountain of Pirene, as he used to do in

your forefathers' days?"

But then the country fellow laughed.

Some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this Pegasus

was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of

his time on the summit of Mount Helicon. He was as wild, and as swift,

and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever

soared into the clouds. There was nothing else like him in the world.

He had no mate; he never had been backed or bridled by a master; and,

for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life.

Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! Sleeping at night, as

he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day

in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth.

Whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the

sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged

to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among

our mists and vapours, and was seeking his way back again. It was very

pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and

be lost in it, for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other

side. Or, in a sullen rain storm, when there was a gray pavement of

clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged

horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region

would gleam after him. In another instant, it is true, both Pegasus and

the pleasant light would be gone away together. But anyone that was

fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole

day afterward, and as much longer as the storm lasted.

In the summer time, and in the beautifullest of weather, Pegasus often

alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would

gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind. Oftener

than in any other place, he had been seen near the Fountain of Pirene,

drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of

the margin. Sometimes, too (but Pegasus was very dainty in his food), he

would crop a few of the clover blossoms that happened to be sweetest.

To the Fountain of Pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had

been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful and retained

their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the

beautiful Pegasus. But, of late years, he had been very seldom seen.

Indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an

hour's walk of the fountain, who had never beheld Pegasus, and did not

believe that there was any such creature in existence. The country

fellow to whom Bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those

incredulous persons.

And that was the reason why he laughed.

"Pegasus, indeed!" cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat

nose could be turned up--"Pegasus, indeed! A winged horse, truly! Why,

friend, are you in your senses? Of what use would wings be to a horse?

Could he drag the plough so well, think you? To be sure, there might be

a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like

to see his horse flying out of the stable window?--yes, or whisking him

up above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill? No, no! I

don't believe in Pegasus. There never was such a ridiculous kind of a

horse fowl made!"

"I have some reason to think otherwise," said Bellerophon, quietly.

And then he turned to an old, gray man, who was leaning on a staff, and

listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward and one hand

at his ear, because, for the last twenty years, he had been getting

rather deaf.

"And what say you, venerable sir?" inquired he, "In your younger days, I

should imagine, you must frequently have seen the winged steed!"

"Ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!" said the aged man. "When I

was a lad, if I remember rightly, I used to believe there was such a

horse, and so did everybody else. But, nowadays, I hardly know what to

think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all. If I ever

saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the

truth, I doubt whether I ever did see him. One day, to be sure, when I

was quite a youth, I remember seeing some hoof tramps round about the

brink of the fountain. Pegasus might have made those hoof marks; and so

might some other horse."

"And have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked Bellerophon of the

girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went on.

"You certainly could see Pegasus, if anybody can, for your eyes are very

bright."

"Once I thought I saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a

blush. "It was either Pegasus or a large white bird, a very great way up

in the air. And one other time, as I was coming to the fountain with my

pitcher, I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that

was! My very heart leaped with delight at the sound. But it startled me,

nevertheless; so that I ran home without filling my pitcher."

"That was truly a pity!" said Bellerophon.

And he turned to the child, whom I mentioned at the beginning of the

story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at

strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open.

"Well, my little fellow," cried Bellerophon, playfully pulling one of

his curls, "I suppose you have often seen the winged horse."

"That I have," answered the child, very readily. "I saw him yesterday,

and many times before."

"You are a fine little man!" said Bellerophon, drawing the child closer

to him. "Come, tell me all about it."

"Why," replied the child, "I often come here to sail little boats in the

fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. And sometimes,

when I look down into the water, I see the image of the winged horse in

the picture of the sky that is there. I wish he would come down, and

take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the moon! But, if I so

much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out of sight."

And Bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of

Pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so

melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only in

cart horses, or in the old man who had forgotten the beautiful things of

his youth.

Therefore, he haunted about the Fountain of Pirene for a great many days

afterward. He kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky,

or else down into the water, hoping forever that he should see either

the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvellous reality. He

held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit, always ready in

his hand. The rustic people who dwelt in the neighbourhood, and drove

their cattle to the fountain to drink, would often laugh at poor

Bellerophon, and sometimes take him pretty severely to task. They told

him that an able-bodied young man like himself ought to have better

business than to be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit. They

offered to sell him a horse, if he wanted one; and when Bellerophon

declined the purchase, they tried to drive a bargain with him for his

fine bridle.

Even the country boys thought him so very foolish that they used to have

a great deal of sport about him, and were rude enough not to care a fig,

although Bellerophon saw and heard it. One little urchin, for example,

would play Pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers, by way of

flying; while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him, holding

forth a twist of bulrushes, which was intended to represent

Bellerophon's ornamental bridle. But the gentle child, who had seen the

picture of Pegasus in the water, comforted the young stranger more than

all the naughty boys could torment him. The dear little fellow, in his

play hours, often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word,

would look down into the fountain and up toward the sky, with so

innocent a faith that Bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged.

Now you will, perhaps, wish to be told why it was that Bellerophon had

undertaken to catch the winged horse. And we shall find no better

opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for

Pegasus to appear.

If I were to relate the whole of Bellerophon's previous adventures, they

might easily grow into a very long story. It will be quite enough to say

that, in a certain country of Asia, a terrible monster, called a

Chimæra, had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could

be talked about between now and sunset. According to the best accounts

which I have been able to obtain, this Chimæra was nearly, if not quite,

the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and

unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with, and the most difficult

to run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside. It had a

tail like a boa-constrictor; its body was like I do not care what; and

it had three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a

goat's, and the third an abominably great snake's. And a hot blast of

fire came flaming out of each of its three mouths! Being an earthly

monster, I doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like

a goat and a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived

to make about as much speed as all the three together.

Oh, the mischief, and mischief, and mischief that this naughty creature

did! With its flaming breath, it could set a forest on fire, or burn up

a field of grain, or, for that matter, a village, with all its fences

and houses. It laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat

up people and animals alive, and cook them afterward in the burning oven

of its stomach. Mercy on us, little children, I hope neither you nor I

will ever happen to meet a Chimæra!

While the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing

all these horrible things, it so chanced that Bellerophon came to that

part of the world, on a visit to the king. The king's name was Iobates,

and Lycia was the country which he ruled over. Bellerophon was one of

the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do

some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire

and love him. In those days, the only way for a young man to distinguish

himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country,

or with wicked giants, or with troublesome dragons, or with wild beasts,

when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter. King Iobates,

perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go

and fight the Chimæra, which everybody else was afraid of, and which,

unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert Lycia into a

desert. Bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he

would either slay this dreaded Chimæra, or perish in the attempt.

But, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he

bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on

foot. The wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best

and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found. And what other horse in

all the world was half so fleet as the marvellous horse Pegasus, who had

wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the

earth? To be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such

horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry

and nonsense. But, wonderful as it appeared, Bellerophon believed that

Pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate

enough to find him; and, once fairly mounted on his back, he would be

able to fight the Chimæra at better advantage.

And this was the purpose with which he had travelled from Lycia to

Greece, and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand.

It was an enchanted bridle. If he could only succeed in putting the

golden bit into the mouth of Pegasus, the winged horse would be

submissive, and would own Bellerophon for his master, and fly

whithersoever he might choose to turn the rein.

But, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time, while Bellerophon waited

and waited for Pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the

Fountain of Pirene. He was afraid lest King Iobates should imagine that

he had fled from the Chimæra. It pained him, too, to think how much

mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of righting

with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of

Pirene, as they gushed out of the sparkling sand. And as Pegasus came

thither so seldom in these latter years, and scarcely alighted there

more than once in a lifetime, Bellerophon feared that he might grow an

old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart,

before the winged horse would appear. Oh, how heavily passes the time,

while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life, and to

gather in the harvest of his renown! How hard a lesson it is to wait!

Our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this!

Well was it for Bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of

him, and was never weary of keeping him company. Every morning the child

gave him a new hope to put in his bosom, instead of yesterday's withered

one.

"Dear Bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "I

think we shall see Pegasus to-day!"

And, at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering

faith, Bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone

back to Lycia, and have done his best to slay the Chimæra without the

help of the winged horse. And in that case poor Bellerophon would at

least have been terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would

most probably have been killed and devoured. Nobody should ever try to

fight an earth-born Chimæra, unless he can first get upon the back of an

aërial steed.

One morning the child spoke to Bellerophon even more hopefully than

usual.

"Dear, dear Bellerophon," cried he, "I know not why it is, but I feel as

if we should certainly see Pegasus to-day!"

And all that day he would not stir a step from Bellerophon's side; so

they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the

fountain. In the afternoon, there they sat, and Bellerophon had thrown

his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands

into Bellerophon's. The latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was

fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that overshadowed

the fountain, and on the grapevines that clambered up among their

branches. But the gentle child was gazing down into the water; he was

grieved, for Bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should be

deceived, like so many before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops fell

from his eyes, and mingled with what were said to be the many tears of

Pirene, when she wept for her slain children.

But, when he least thought of it, Bellerophon felt the pressure of the

child's little hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless, whisper.

"See there, dear Bellerophon! There is an image in the water!"

The young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and

saw what he took to be the reflection of a bird which seemed to be

flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its

snowy or silvery wings.

"What a splendid bird it must be!" said he. "And how very large it

looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!"

"It makes me tremble!" whispered the child. "I am afraid to look up into

the air! It is very beautiful, and yet I dare only look at its image in

the water. Dear Bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird? It is

the winged horse Pegasus!"

Bellerophon's heart began to throb! He gazed keenly upward, but could

not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse; because, just then,

it had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud. It was but a

moment, however, before the object reappeared, sinking lightly down out

of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth.

Bellerophon caught the child in his arms, and shrank back with him, so

that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all

around the fountain. Not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded

lest, if Pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away, and

alight in some inaccessible mountain-top. For it was really the winged

horse. After they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his

thirst with the water of Pirene.

Nearer and nearer came the aërial wonder, flying in great circles, as

you may have seen a dove when about to alight. Downward came Pegasus, in

those wide, sweeping circles, which grew narrower, and narrower still,

as he gradually approached the earth. The nigher the view of him, the

more beautiful he was, and the more marvellous the sweep of his silvery

wings. At last, with so light a pressure as hardly to bend the grass

about the fountain, or imprint a hoof tramp in the sand of its margin,

he alighted, and, stooping his wild head, began to drink. He drew in the

water, with long and pleasant sighs, and tranquil pauses of enjoyment;

and then another draught, and another, and another. For, nowhere in the

world, or up among the clouds, did Pegasus love any water as he loved

this of Pirene. And when his thirst was slaked, he cropped a few of the

honey blossoms of the clover, delicately tasting them, but not caring to

make a hearty meal, because the herbage just beneath the clouds, on the

lofty sides of Mount Helicon, suited his palate better than this

ordinary grass.

After thus drinking to his heart's content, and in his dainty fashion

condescending to take a little food, the winged horse began to caper to

and fro, and dance as it were, out of mere idleness and sport. There

never was a more playful creature made than this very Pegasus. So there

he frisked, in a way that it delights me to think about, fluttering his

great wings as lightly as ever did a linnet, and running little races,

half on earth and half in air, and which I know not whether to call a

flight or a gallop. When a creature is perfectly able to fly, he

sometimes chooses to run, just for the pastime of the thing; and so did

Pegasus, although it cost him some little trouble to keep his hoofs so

near the ground. Bellerophon, meanwhile, holding the child's hand,

peeped forth from the shrubbery, and thought that never was any sight so

beautiful as this, nor ever a horse's eyes so wild and spirited as those

of Pegasus. It seemed a sin to think of bridling him and riding on his

back.

Once or twice, Pegasus stopped, and snuffed the air, pricking up his

ears, tossing his head, and turning it on all sides, as if he partly

suspected some mischief or other. Seeing nothing, however, and hearing

no sound, he soon began his antics again.

At length--not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious--Pegasus

folded his wings, and lay down on the soft green turf. But, being too

full of aërial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon

rolled over on his back, with his four slender legs in the air. It was

beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature, whose mate had never

been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many

hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long. The more he did

such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and

the more wonderful he seemed. Bellerophon and the child almost held

their breaths, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they

dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up, with the

speed of an arrow flight, into the farthest blue of the sky.

Finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, Pegasus turned

himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his fore

legs, in order to rise from the ground; and Bellerophon, who had guessed

that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket, and leaped

astride of his back.

Yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse!

But what a bound did Pegasus make, when, for the first time, he felt the

weight of a mortal man upon his loins! A bound, indeed! Before he had

time to draw a breath Bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft,

and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled

with terror and anger. Upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into

the cold misty bosom of a cloud, at which, only a little while before,

Bellerophon had been gazing, and fancying it a very pleasant spot. Then

again, out of the heart of the cloud, Pegasus shot down like a

thunderbolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider headlong

against a rock. Then he went through about a thousand of the wildest

caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse.

I cannot tell you half that he did. He skimmed straight forward, and

sideways, and backward. He reared himself erect, with his fore legs on a

wreath of mist, and his hind legs on nothing at all. He flung out his

heels behind, and put down his head between his legs, with his wings

pointing right upward. At about two miles' height above the earth, he

turned a somerset, so that Bellerophon's heels were where his head

should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of

up. He twisted his head about, and, looking Bellerophon in the face,

with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him.

He fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was

shaken out, and floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept

it as long as he lived, in memory of Pegasus and Bellerophon.

But the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever

galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the

golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws. No

sooner was this done, than Pegasus became as manageable as if he had

taken food all his life out of Bellerophon's hand. To speak what I

really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow

suddenly so tame. And Pegasus seemed to feel it so, likewise. He looked

round to Bellerophon, with the tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of

the fire that so recently flashed from them. But when Bellerophon patted

his head, and spoke a few authoritative yet kind and soothing words,

another look came into the eyes of Pegasus; for he was glad at heart,

after so many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master.

Thus it always is with winged horses, and with all such wild and

solitary creatures. If you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest

way to win their love.

While Pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake Bellerophon off his

back, he had flown a very long distance; and they had come within sight

of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth. Bellerophon

had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be Helicon, on the summit

of which was the winged horse's abode. Thither (after looking gently

into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) Pegasus now flew, and,

alighting, waited patiently until Bellerophon should please to dismount.

The young man, accordingly, leaped from his steed's back, but still held

him fast by the bridle. Meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by

the gentleness of his aspect, and by the thought of the free life which

Pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear to keep him a

prisoner, if he really desired his liberty.

Obeying this generous impulse he slipped the enchanted bridle off the

head of Pegasus, and took the bit from his mouth.

"Leave me, Pegasus!" said he. "Either leave me, or love me."

In an instant, the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring upward

from the summit of Mount Helicon. Being long after sunset, it was now

twilight on the mountain-top, and dusky evening over all the country

round about. But Pegasus flew so high that he overtook the departed day,

and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun. Ascending higher and

higher, he looked like a bright speck, and, at last, could no longer be

seen in the hollow waste of the sky. And Bellerophon was afraid that he

should never behold him more. But, while he was lamenting his own folly,

the bright speck reappeared, and drew nearer and nearer, until it

descended lower than the sunshine; and, behold, Pegasus had come back!

After this trial there was no more fear of the winged horse's making his

escape. He and Bellerophon were friends, and put loving faith in one

another.

That night they lay down and slept together, with Bellerophon's arm

about the neck of Pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness. And they

awoke at peep of day, and bade one another good-morning, each in his own

language.

In this manner, Bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days,

and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time. They

went on long aërial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the

earth looked hardly bigger than--the moon. They visited distant

countries, and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful

young man, on the back of the winged horse, must have come down out of

the sky. A thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the

fleet Pegasus to pass over. Bellerophon was delighted with this kind of

life, and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the

same way, aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather

up there, however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region.

But he could not forget the horrible Chimæra, which he had promised King

Iobates to slay. So, at last, when he had become well accustomed, to

feats of horsemanship in the air, and could manage Pegasus with the

least motion of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he

determined to attempt the performance of this perilous adventure.

At daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently

pinched the winged horse's ear, in order to arouse him. Pegasus

immediately started from the ground, and pranced about a quarter of a

mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain-top, by way of

showing that he was wide awake, and ready for any kind of an excursion.

During the whole of this little flight, he uttered a loud, brisk, and

melodious neigh, and finally came down at Bellerophon's side, as lightly

as ever you saw a sparrow hop upon a twig.

"Well done, dear Pegasus! well done, my sky-skimmer!" cried

Bellerophon, fondly stroking the horse's neck. "And now, my fleet and

beautiful friend, we must break our fast. To-day we are to fight the

terrible Chimæra."

As soon as they had eaten their morning meal, and drank some sparkling

water from a spring called Hippocrene, Pegasus held out his head, of his

own accord, so that his master might put on the bridle. Then, with a

great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to

be gone; while Bellerophon was girding on his sword, and hanging his

shield about his neck, and preparing himself for battle. When everything

was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom, when going a long

distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see

whither he was directing his course. He then turned the head of Pegasus

toward the east, and set out for Lycia. In their flight they overtook an

eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that

Bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg. Hastening onward at

this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty

mountains of Lycia, with their deep and shaggy valleys. If Bellerophon

had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the

hideous Chimæra had taken up its abode.

Being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually

descended with his rider; and they took advantage of some clouds that

were floating over the mountain-tops, in order to conceal themselves.

Hovering on the upper surface of a cloud, and peeping over its edge,

Bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of Lycia,

and could look into all its shadowy vales at once. At first there

appeared to be nothing remarkable. It was a wild, savage, and rocky

tract of high and precipitous hills. In the more level part of the

country, there were the ruins of houses that had been burnt, and, here

and there, the carcasses of dead cattle, strewn about the pastures where

they had been feeding.

"The Chimæra must have done this mischief," thought Bellerophon. "But

where can the monster be?"

As I have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected, at

first sight, in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the

precipitous heights of the mountains. Nothing at all; unless, indeed, it

were three spires of black smoke, which issued from what seemed to be

the mouth of a cavern, and clambered sullenly into the atmosphere.

Before reaching the mountain-top, these three black smoke wreaths

mingled themselves into one. The cavern was almost directly beneath the

winged horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet.

The smoke, as it crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling

scent, which caused Pegasus to snort and Bellerophon to sneeze. So

disagreeable was it to the marvellous steed (who was accustomed to

breathe only the purest air), that he waved his wings, and shot half a

mile out of the range of this offensive vapour.

But, on looking behind him, Bellerophon saw something that induced him

first to draw the bridle, and then to turn Pegasus about. He made a

sign, which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the

air, until his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the

rocky bottom of the valley. In front, as far off as you could throw a

stone, was the cavern's mouth, with the three smoke wreaths oozing out

of it. And what else did Bellerophon behold there?

There seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up

within the cavern. Their bodies lay so close together that Bellerophon

could not distinguish them apart; but, judging by their heads, one of

these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the

third an ugly goat. The lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was

broad awake, and kept staring around him with a great pair of fiery

eyes. But--and this was the most wonderful part of the matter--the three

spires of smoke evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads!

So strange was the spectacle, that, though Bellerophon had been all

along expecting it, the truth did not immediately occur to him, that

here was the terrible three-headed Chimæra. He had found out the

Chimæra's cavern. The snake, the lion, and the goat, as he supposed them

to be, were not three separate creatures, but one monster!

The wicked, hateful thing! Slumbering as two-thirds of it were, it still

held, in its abominable claws, the remnant of an unfortunate lamb--or

possibly (but I hate to think so) it was a dear little boy--which its

three mouths had been gnawing, before two of them fell asleep!

All at once, Bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the

Chimæra. Pegasus seemed to know it, at the same instant, and sent forth

a neigh that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle. At this sound

the three heads reared themselves erect, and belched out great flashes

of flame. Before Bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the

monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight toward him,

with its immense claws extended, and its snaky tail twisting itself

venomously behind. If Pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he

and his rider would have been overthrown by the Chimæra's headlong rush,

and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun. But the

winged horse was not to be caught so. In the twinkling of an eye he was

up aloft, half way to the clouds, snorting with anger. He shuddered,

too, not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of

this poisonous thing with three heads.

The Chimæra, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand

absolutely on the tip end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely

in the air, and its three heads sputtering fire at Pegasus and his

rider. My stars, how it roared, and hissed, and bellowed! Bellerophon,

meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword.

"Now, my beloved Pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou

must help me to slay this insufferable monster; or else thou shalt fly

back to thy solitary mountain peak without thy friend Bellerophon. For

either the Chimæra dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of

mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck!"

Pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly

against his rider's cheek. It was his way of telling him that, though he

had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were

possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave Bellerophon

behind.

"I thank you, Pegasus," answered Bellerophon. "Now, then, let us make a

dash at the monster!"

Uttering these words, he shook the bridle; and Pegasus darted down

aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right toward the Chimæra's

threefold head, which, all this time, was poking itself as high as it

could into the air. As he came within arm's length, Bellerophon made a

cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed, before he could

see whether the blow had been successful. Pegasus continued his course,

but soon wheeled round, at about the same distance from the Chimæra as

before. Bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of

the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and

seemed quite dead.

But, to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's head had taken all

the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and spit flame, and

hissed, and roared, with a vast deal more fury than before.

"Never mind, my brave Pegasus!" cried Bellerophon. "With another stroke

like that, we will stop either its hissing or its roaring."

And again he shook the bridle. Dashing aslantwise, as before, the winged

horse made another arrow-flight toward the Chimæra, and Bellerophon

aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads, as he

shot by. But this time, neither he nor Pegasus escaped so well as at

first. With one of its claws, the Chimæra had given the young man a deep

scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the

flying steed with the other. On his part, Bellerophon had mortally

wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung

downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of

thick black smoke. The snake's head, however (which was the only one now

left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before. It belched forth

shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so

harsh, and so ear-piercing, that King Iobates heard them, fifty miles

off, and trembled till the throne shook under him.

"Well-a-day!" thought the poor king; "the Chimæra is certainly coming to

devour me!"

Meanwhile Pegasus had again paused in the air, and neighed angrily,

while sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes. How

unlike the lurid fire of the Chimæra! The aërial steed's spirit was all

aroused, and so was that of Bellerophon.

"Dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?" cried the young man, caring less

for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature, that

ought never to have tasted pain. "The execrable Chimæra shall pay for

this mischief with his last head!"

Then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly, and guided Pegasus, not

aslantwise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front. So

rapid was the onset that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash before

Bellerophon was at close grips with his enemy.

The Chimæra, by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a

red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage. It so flounced about, half on

earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element

it rested upon. It opened its snake jaws to such an abominable width,

that Pegasus might almost, I was going to say, have flown right down its

throat, wings outspread, rider and all! At their approach it shot out a

tremendous blast of its fiery breath, and enveloped Bellerophon and his

steed in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of Pegasus,

scorching off one whole side of the young man's golden ringlets, and

making them both far hotter than was comfortable, from head to foot.

But this was nothing to what followed.

When the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the

distance of a hundred yards, the Chimæra gave a spring, and flung its

huge, awkward, venomous, and utterly detestable carcass right upon poor

Pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail

into a knot! Up flew the aërial steed, higher, higher, higher, above the

mountain-peak, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid

earth. But still the earth-born monster kept its hold, and was borne

upward, along with the creature of light and air. Bellerophon,

meanwhile, turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly

grimness of the Chimæra's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to

death, or bitten right in twain, by holding up his shield. Over the

upper edge of the shield, he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the

monster.

But the Chimæra was so mad and wild with pain that it did not guard

itself so well as might else have been the case. Perhaps, after all,

the best way to fight a Chimæra is by getting as close to it as you can.

In its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy the

creature left its own breast quite exposed; and perceiving this,

Bellerophon thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart.

Immediately the snaky tail untied its knot. The monster let go its hold

of Pegasus, and fell from that vast height downward; while the fire

within its bosom, instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever,

and quickly began to consume the dead carcass. Thus it fell out of the

sky, all a-flame, and (it being nightfall before it reached the earth)

was mistaken for a shooting star or a comet. But, at early sunrise, some

cottagers were going to their day's labour, and saw, to their

astonishment, that several acres of ground were strewn with black ashes.

In the middle of a field, there was a heap of whitened bones, a great

deal higher than a haystack. Nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful

Chimæra!

And when Bellerophon had won the victory, he bent forward and kissed

Pegasus, while the tears stood in his eyes.

"Back now, my beloved steed!" said he. "Back to the Fountain of Pirene!"

Pegasus skimmed through the air, quicker than ever he did before, and

reached the fountain in a very short time. And there he found the old

man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and

the pretty maiden filling her pitcher.

"I remember now," quoth the old man, "I saw this winged horse once

before, when I was quite a lad. But he was ten times handsomer in those

days."

"I own a cart horse worth three of him!" said the country fellow. "If

this pony were mine, the first thing I should do would be to clip his

wings!"

But the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be

afraid at the wrong time. So she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble

down, and broke it.

"Where is the gentle child," asked Bellerophon, "who used to keep me

company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into

the fountain?"

"Here am I, dear Bellerophon!" said the child, softly.

For the little boy had spent day after day on the margin of Pirene,

waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived Bellerophon

descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had

shrunk back into the shrubbery. He was a delicate and tender child, and

dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears

gushing from his eyes.

"Thou hast won the victory," said he, joyfully, running to the knee of

Bellerophon, who still sat on the back of Pegasus. "I knew thou

wouldst."

"Yes, dear child!" replied Bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse.

"But if thy faith had not helped me, I should never have waited for

Pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have

conquered the terrible Chimæra. Thou, my beloved little friend, hast

done it all. And now let us give Pegasus his liberty."

So he slipped off the enchanted bridle from the head of the marvellous

steed.

"Be free, forevermore, my Pegasus!" cried he, with a shade of sadness in

his tone. "Be as free as thou art fleet!"

But Pegasus rested his head on Bellerophon's shoulder, and would not be

persuaded to take flight.

"Well then," said Bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be

with me as long as thou wilt; and we will go together, forthwith, and

tell King Iobates that the Chimæra is destroyed."

Then Bellerophon embraced the gentle child, and promised to come to him

again, and departed. But, in after years, that child took higher flights

upon the aërial steed than ever did Bellerophon, and achieved more

honourable deeds than his friend's victory over the Chimæra. For, gentle

and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet!

CHAPTER IV

THE GOLDEN TOUCH

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 anything else in the world.

He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that

precious metal. If he loved anything 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 immensest

pile of yellow, 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, "Poh, poh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they

look, they would be worth the plucking!"

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of

this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for

flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and

beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt.

These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and

as fragrant as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them,

and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was

only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the

innumerable rose petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he once

was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were

said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas, now,

was the chink of one coin against another.

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!" But it

was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out

of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his foolish

behaviour, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so

happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be

reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure room, and be

filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in

the old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came

to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in

our own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things

take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which

the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole,

I regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that

may be, I must go on with my story.

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 suddenly

up, what should he behold but 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 everything, 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 radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure

intercepted the sunshine, 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.

It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the

earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the

resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to

interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children,

half playfully and half seriously. 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 humoured 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 favour. And what

could that favour 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 life 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 a presentiment that this stranger,

with such a golden lustre in his good-humoured 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. It seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which

he loved so much.

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 everything that I touch to be changed to gold!"

The stranger's smile grew so very broad, 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 conception. 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.

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep

or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to

whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any

rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills, when King Midas was broad

awake, and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects

that were within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch

had really come, according to the stranger's promise. So he laid his

finger on a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was

grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the

same substance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had

only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had

been making game of him. And what a miserable affair would it be, if,

after all his hopes, Midas must content himself with what little gold he

could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a

touch!

All this while, it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak

of brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it.

He lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes

and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone

through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. It seemed to

Midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular

way on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his

astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been

transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest

gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room,

grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of

the bedposts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He

pulled aside a window curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of

the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his

hand--a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first

touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and

gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his

fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden

plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible. He

hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a

magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and

softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out

his handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him. That was

likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and pretty stitches running

all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King

Midas. He would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have

remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his

hand.

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas now took

his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that

he might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days,

spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already

worn by kings: else, how could Midas have had any? To his great

perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that

he could not possibly see through them. But this was the most natural

thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystals

turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless

as spectacles, though valuable as gold. It struck Midas, as rather

inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich

enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.

"It is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very

philosophically. "We cannot expect any great good, without its being

accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth

the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very

eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little

Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me."

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace

seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went

downstairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the

staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in

his descent. He lifted the doorlatch (it was brass only a moment ago,

but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden.

Here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full

bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very

delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate

blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest,

and so full of sweet tranquillity, did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his

way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains

in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most

indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms

at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this

good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast; and as

the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back

to the palace.

What was usually a king's breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do

not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the best of my belief,

however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot

cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled

eggs, and coffee, for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk

for his daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set

before a king; and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have

had a better.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her

to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming,

in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really

loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on

account of the good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great

while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly.

This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the

cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and

hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her

sobs, he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits, by an

agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his

daughter's bowl (which was a china one, with pretty figures all around

it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and

showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart

would break.

"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "Pray what is the matter with

you, this bright morning?"

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in

which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this

magnificent golden rose to make you cry?"

"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let

her; "it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As

soon as I was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for

you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when

gathered by your little daughter. But, oh dear, dear me. What do you

think has happened? Such a misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that

smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and

spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no

longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?"

"Poh, my dear little girl--pray don't cry about it!" said Midas, who was

ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so

greatly afflicted her, "Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will

find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last

hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day."

"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it

contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my

nose!"

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for

the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful

transmutation of her china bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for

Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer

figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the

circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in

the yellow hue of the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of

course, the Coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it

up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it was

rather an extravagant style of splendour, in a king of his simple

habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with

the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the

kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so

valuable as golden bowls and coffee-pots.

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and,

sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips

touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment,

hardened into a lump!

"Ha!" exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

"What is the matter, father?" asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with

the tears still standing in her eyes.

"Nothing, child, nothing!" said Midas. "Eat your milk, before it gets

quite cold."

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of

experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was

immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook trout into a

gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep

in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlour. No; but it was really a

metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the

nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires;

its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of

the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely

fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty piece of work, as

you may suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment, would much rather

have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable

imitation of one.

"I don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how I am to get any

breakfast!"

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when,

to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the

whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To say the

truth, if it had really been a hot Indian cake, Midas would have prized

it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased

weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in

despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent

a change similar to those of the trout and the cake. The egg, indeed,

might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in the

story book, was in the habit of laying; but King Midas was the only

goose that had had anything to do with the matter.

"Well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair, and

looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread

and milk with great satisfaction. "Such a costly breakfast before me,

and nothing that can be eaten!"

Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt

to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot

potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a

hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth

full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue

that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and

stamp about the room, both with pain and affright.

"Father, dear father!" cried little Marygold, who was a very

affectionate child, "pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your

mouth?"

"Ah, dear child," groaned Midas, dolefully, "I don't know what is to

become of your poor father!"

And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable

case in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that

could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely

good for nothing. The poorest labourer, sitting down to his crust of

bread and cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose

delicate food was really worth its weight in gold. And what was to be

done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be

less so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for

supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible

dishes as those now before him! How many days, think you, would he

survive a continuance of this rich fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt

whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or

even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So

fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would

still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a

consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal's

victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of

money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for

some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!

"It would be quite too dear," thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his

situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously, too. Our

pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat, a moment, gazing at

her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find

out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful

impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to

Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and

kissed her. He felt that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand

times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.

"My precious, precious Marygold!" cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger

bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold's forehead, a

change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it

had been, assumed a glittering yellow colour, with yellow tear-drops

congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same

tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within

her father's encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his

insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no

longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity,

hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woeful sight that

ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there;

even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But, the

more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at

beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a

daughter. It had been a favourite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt

particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in

gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And, now, at last,

when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart,

that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up

betwixt the earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the

fulness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and

bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor

yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image,

he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But,

stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a

yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender,

that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold,

and make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only

to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide

world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose

colour to his dear child's face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger

standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for

he recognised the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before,

in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of

the Golden Touch. The stranger's countenance still wore a smile, which

seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little

Marygold's image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by

the touch of Midas.

"Well, friend Midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with

the Golden Touch?"

Midas shook his head.

"I am very miserable," said he.

"Very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger.

"And how happens that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you?

Have you not everything that your heart desired?"

"Gold is not everything," answered Midas. "And I have lost all that my

heart really cared for."

"Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?" observed the

stranger. "Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is

really worth the most--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear

cold water?"

"O blessed water!" exclaimed Midas. "I will never moisten my parched

throat again!"

"The Golden Touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?"

"A piece of bread," answered Midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!"

"The Golden Touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little Marygold,

warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?"

"Oh, my child, my dear child!" cried poor Midas, wringing his hands. "I

would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of

changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!"

"You are wiser than you were, King Midas!" said the stranger, looking

seriously at him. "Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely

changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be

desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the

commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more

valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after.

Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden

Touch?"

"It is hateful to me!" replied Midas.

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it,

too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.

"Go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides

past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water,

and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again

from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and

sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has

occasioned."

King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger

had vanished.

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great

earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched

it), and hastening to the river-side. As he scampered along, and forced

his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous to see how

the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there,

and nowhere else. On reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in,

without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.

"Poof! poof! poof!" snorted King Midas, as his head emerged out of the

water. "Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have

quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!"

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to

see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which

it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change

within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out

of his bosom. No doubt, his heart had been gradually losing its human

substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now

softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the

bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed

to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of

undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had,

therefore, really been removed from him.

King Midas hastened back to the palace; and, I suppose, the servants

knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so

carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water,

which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more

precious to Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The

first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by

handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the

rosy colour came back to the dear child's cheek! and how she began to

sneeze and sputter!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping

wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!

"Pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "See how you have wet my nice

frock, which I put on only this morning!"

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor

could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she

ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very

foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser

he had now grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into the

garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the

rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses

recovered their beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however,

which, as long as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden

Touch. One was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the

other, that little Marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had

never observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his

kiss. This change of hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold's

hair richer than in her babyhood.

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot Marygold's

children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvellous story,

pretty much as I have now told it to you. And then would he stroke their

glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich

shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.

"And to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth King Midas,

diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that

morning, I have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!"

CHAPTER V

THE GORGON'S HEAD

Perseus was the son of Danaë, who was the daughter of a king. And when

Perseus was a very little boy, some wicked people put his mother and

himself into a chest, and set them afloat upon the sea. The wind blew

freshly, and drove the chest away from the shore, and the uneasy billows

tossed it up and down; while Danaë clasped her child closely to her

bosom, and dreaded that some big wave would dash its foamy crest over

them both. The chest sailed on, however, and neither sank nor was upset;

until, when night was coming, it floated so near an island that it got

entangled in a fisherman's nets, and was drawn out high and dry upon the

sand. The island was called Seriphus, and it was reigned over by King

Polydectes, who happened to be the fisherman's brother.

This fisherman, I am glad to tell you, was an exceedingly humane and

upright man. He showed great kindness to Danaë and her little boy; and

continued to befriend them, until Perseus had grown to be a handsome

youth, very strong and active, and skilful in the use of arms. Long

before this time, King Polydectes had seen the two strangers--the mother

and her child--who had come to his dominions in a floating chest. As he

was not good and kind, like his brother the fisherman, but extremely

wicked, he resolved to send Perseus on a dangerous enterprise, in which

he would probably be killed, and then to do some great mischief to Danaë

herself. So this bad-hearted king spent a long while in considering what

was the most dangerous thing that a young man could possibly undertake

to perform. At last, having hit upon an enterprise that promised to turn

out as fatally as he desired, he sent for the youthful Perseus.

The young man came to the palace, and found the king sitting upon his

throne.

"Perseus," said King Polydectes, smiling craftily upon him, "you are

grown up a fine young man. You and your good mother have received a

great deal of kindness from myself, as well as from my worthy brother

the fisherman, and I suppose you would not be sorry to repay some of

it."

"Please, Your Majesty," answered Perseus, "I would willingly risk my

life to do so."

"Well, then," continued the king, still with a cunning smile on his

lips, "I have a little adventure to propose to you; and, as you are a

brave and enterprising youth, you will doubtless look upon it as a great

piece of good luck to have so rare an opportunity of distinguishing

yourself. You must know, my good Perseus, I think of getting married to

the beautiful Princess Hippodamia; and it is customary, on these

occasions, to make the bride a present of some far-fetched and elegant

curiosity. I have been a little perplexed, I must honestly confess,

where to obtain anything likely to please a princess of her exquisite

taste. But, this morning, I flatter myself, I have thought of precisely

the article."

"And can I assist Your Majesty in obtaining it?" cried Perseus,

eagerly.

"You can, if you are as brave a youth as I believe you to be," replied

King Polydectes, with the utmost graciousness of manner. "The bridal

gift which I have set my heart on presenting to the beautiful Hippodamia

is the head of the Gorgon Medusa with the snaky locks; and I depend on

you, my dear Perseus, to bring it to me. So, as I am anxious to settle

affairs with the princess, the sooner you go in quest of the Gorgon, the

better I shall be pleased."

"I will set out to-morrow morning," answered Perseus.

"Pray do so, my gallant youth," rejoined the king. "And, Perseus, in

cutting off the Gorgon's head, be careful to make a clean stroke, so as

not to injure its appearance. You must bring it home in the very best

condition, in order to suit the exquisite taste of the beautiful

Princess Hippodamia."

Perseus left the palace, but was scarcely out of hearing before

Polydectes burst into a laugh; being greatly amused, wicked king that he

was, to find how readily the young man fell into the snare. The news

quickly spread abroad that Perseus had undertaken to cut off the head of

Medusa with the snaky locks. Everybody was rejoiced; for most of the

inhabitants of the island were as wicked as the king himself, and would

have liked nothing better than to see some enormous mischief happen to

Danaë and her son. The only good man in this unfortunate island of

Seriphus appears to have been the fisherman. As Perseus walked along,

therefore, the people pointed after him, and made mouths, and winked to

one another, and ridiculed him as loudly as they dared.

"Ho, ho!" cried they; "Medusa's snakes will sting him soundly!"

Now, there were three Gorgons alive at that period; and they were the

most strange and terrible monsters that had ever been since the world

was made, or that have been seen in after days, or that are likely to be

seen in all time to come. I hardly know what sort of creature or

hobgoblin to call them. They were three sisters, and seem to have borne

some distant resemblance to women, but were really a very frightful and

mischievous species of dragon. It is, indeed, difficult to imagine what

hideous beings these three sisters were. Why, instead of locks of hair,

if you can believe me, they had each of them a hundred enormous snakes

growing on their heads, all alive, twisting, wriggling, curling, and

thrusting out their venomous tongues, with forked stings at the end! The

teeth of the Gorgons were terribly long tusks; their hands were made of

brass; and their bodies were all over scales, which, if not iron, were

something as hard and impenetrable. They had wings, too, and exceedingly

splendid ones, I can assure you; for every feather in them was pure,

bright, glittering, burnished gold, and they looked very dazzlingly, no

doubt, when the Gorgons were flying about in the sunshine.

But when people happened to catch a glimpse of their glittering

brightness, aloft in the air, they seldom stopped to gaze, but ran and

hid themselves as speedily as they could. You will think, perhaps, that

they were afraid of being stung by the serpents that served the Gorgons

instead of hair--or of having their heads bitten off by their ugly

tusks--or of being torn all to pieces by their brazen claws. Well, to be

sure, these were some of the dangers, but by no means the greatest, nor

the most difficult to avoid. For the worst thing about these abominable

Gorgons was, that, if once a poor mortal fixed his eyes full upon one

of their faces, he was certain, that very instant, to be changed from

warm flesh and blood into cold and lifeless stone!

Thus, as you will easily perceive, it was a very dangerous adventure

that the wicked King Polydectes had contrived for this innocent young

man. Perseus himself, when he had thought over the matter, could not

help seeing that he had very little chance of coming safely through it,

and that he was far more likely to become a stone image than to bring

back the head of Medusa with the snaky locks. For, not to speak of other

difficulties, there was one which it would have puzzled an older man

than Perseus to get over. Not only must he fight with and slay this

golden-winged, iron-scaled, long-tusked, brazen-clawed, snaky-haired

monster, but he must do it with his eyes shut, or, at least, without so

much as a glance at the enemy with whom he was contending. Else, while

his arm was lifted to strike, he would stiffen into stone, and stand

with that uplifted arm for centuries, until time, and the wind and

weather, should crumble him quite away. This would be a very sad thing

to befall a young man who wanted to perform a great many brave deeds,

and to enjoy a great deal of happiness, in this bright and beautiful

world.

So disconsolate did these thoughts make him, that Perseus could not bear

to tell his mother what he had undertaken to do. He therefore took his

shield, girded on his sword, and crossed over from the island to the

mainland, where he sat down in a solitary place, and hardly refrained

from shedding tears.

But, while he was in this sorrowful mood, he heard a voice close beside

him.

"Perseus," said the voice, "why are you sad?"

He lifted his head from his hands, in which he had hidden it, and,

behold! all alone as Perseus had supposed himself to be, there was a

stranger in the solitary place. It was a brisk, intelligent, and

remarkably shrewd-looking young man, with a cloak over his shoulders, an

odd sort of cap on his head, a strangely twisted staff in his hand, and

a short and very crooked sword hanging by his side. He was exceedingly

light and active in his figure, like a person much accustomed to

gymnastic exercises, and well able to leap or run. Above all, the

stranger had such a cheerful, knowing, and helpful aspect (though it was

certainly a little mischievous, into the bargain), that Perseus could

not help feeling his spirits grow livelier as he gazed at him. Besides,

being really a courageous youth, he felt greatly ashamed that anybody

should have found him with tears in his eyes, like a timid little

schoolboy, when, after all, there might be no occasion for despair. So

Perseus wiped his eyes, and answered the stranger pretty briskly,

putting on as brave a look as he could.

"I am not so very sad," said he, "only thoughtful about an adventure

that I have undertaken."

"Oho!" answered the stranger. "Well, tell me all about it, and possibly

I may be of service to you. I have helped a good many young men through

adventures that looked difficult enough beforehand. Perhaps you may have

heard of me. I have more names than one; but the name of Quicksilver

suits me as well as any other. Tell me what the trouble is, and we will

talk the matter over, and see what can be done."

The stranger's words and manner put Perseus into quite a different mood

from his former one. He resolved to tell Quicksilver all his

difficulties, since he could not easily be worse off than he already

was, and, very possibly, his new friend might give him some advice that

would turn out well in the end. So he let the stranger know, in few

words, precisely what the case was,--how that King Polydectes wanted the

head of Medusa with the snaky locks as a bridal gift for the beautiful

Princess Hippodamia, and how that he had undertaken to get it for him,

but was afraid of being turned into stone.

"And that would be a great pity," said Quicksilver, with his mischievous

smile. "You would make a very handsome marble statue, it is true, and it

would be a considerable number of centuries before you crumbled away;

but, on the whole, one would rather be a young man for a few years, than

a stone image for a great many."

"Oh, far rather!" exclaimed Perseus, with the tears again standing in

his eyes. "And, besides, what would my dear mother do, if her beloved

son were turned into a stone?"

"Well, well, let us hope that the affair will not turn out so very

badly," replied Quicksilver, in an encouraging tone. "I am the very

person to help you, if anybody can. My sister and myself will do our

utmost to bring you safe through the adventure, ugly as it now looks."

"Your sister?" repeated Perseus.

"Yes, my sister," said the stranger. "She is very wise, I promise you;

and as for myself, I generally have all my wits about me, such as they

are. If you show yourself bold and cautious, and follow our advice, you

need not fear being a stone image yet awhile. But, first of all, you

must polish your shield, till you can see your face in it as distinctly

as in a mirror."

This seemed to Perseus rather an odd beginning of the adventure; for he

thought it of far more consequence that the shield should be strong

enough to defend him from the Gorgon's brazen claws, than that it should

be bright enough to show him the reflection of his face. However,

concluding that Quicksilver knew better than himself, he immediately set

to work, and scrubbed the shield with so much diligence and good-will,

that it very quickly shone like the moon at harvest time. Quicksilver

looked at it with a smile, and nodded his approbation. Then, taking off

his own short and crooked sword, he girded it about Perseus, instead of

the one which he had before worn.

"No sword but mine will answer your purpose," observed he; "the blade

has a most excellent temper, and will cut through iron and brass as

easily as through the slenderest twig. And now we will set out. The next

thing is to find the Three Gray Women, who will tell us where to find

the Nymphs."

"The Three Gray Women!" cried Perseus, to whom this seemed only a new

difficulty in the path of his adventure; "pray who may the Three Gray

Women be? I never heard of them before."

"They are three very strange old ladies," said Quicksilver, laughing.

"They have but one eye among them, and only one tooth. Moreover, you

must find them out by starlight, or in the dusk of the evening; for they

never show themselves by the light either of the sun or moon."

"But," said Perseus, "why should I waste my time with these Three Gray

Women? Would it not be better to set out at once in search of the

terrible Gorgons?"

"No, no," answered his friend. "There are other things to be done,

before you can find your way to the Gorgons. There is nothing for it but

to hunt up these old ladies; and when we meet with them, you may be sure

that the Gorgons are not a great way off. Come, let us be stirring!"

Perseus, by this time, felt so much confidence in his companion's

sagacity, that he made no more objections, and professed himself ready

to begin the adventure immediately. They accordingly set out, and walked

at a pretty brisk pace; so brisk, indeed, that Perseus found it rather

difficult to keep up with his nimble friend Quicksilver. To say the

truth, he had a singular idea that Quicksilver was furnished with a pair

of winged shoes, which, of course, helped him along marvellously. And

then, too, when Perseus looked sideways at him out of the corner of his

eye, he seemed to see wings on the side of his head; although, if he

turned a full gaze, there were no such things to be perceived, but only

an odd kind of cap. But, at all events, the twisted staff was evidently

a great convenience to Quicksilver, and enabled him to proceed so fast,

that Perseus, though a remarkably active young man, began to be out of

breath.

"Here!" cried Quicksilver, at last--for he knew well enough, rogue that

he was, how hard Perseus found it to keep pace with him--"take you the

staff, for you need it a great deal more than I. Are there no better

walkers than yourself in the island of Seriphus?"

"I could walk pretty well," said Perseus, glancing slyly at his

companion's feet, "if I had only a pair of winged shoes."

"We must see about getting you a pair," answered Quicksilver.

But the staff helped Perseus along so bravely, that he no longer felt

the slightest weariness. In fact, the stick seemed to be alive in his

hand, and to lend some of its life to Perseus. He and Quicksilver now

walked onward at their ease, talking very sociably together; and

Quicksilver told so many pleasant stories about his former adventures,

and how well his wits had served him on various occasions, that Perseus

began to think him a very wonderful person. He evidently knew the world;

and nobody is so charming to a young man as a friend who has that kind

of knowledge. Perseus listened the more eagerly, in the hope of

brightening his own wits by what he heard.

At last, he happened to recollect that Quicksilver had spoken of a

sister, who was to lend her assistance in the adventure which they were

now bound upon.

"Where is she?" he inquired. "Shall we not meet her soon?"

"All at the proper time," said his companion. "But this sister of mine,

you must understand, is quite a different sort of character from myself.

She is very grave and prudent, seldom smiles, never laughs, and makes it

a rule not to utter a word unless she has something particularly

profound to say. Neither will she listen to any but the wisest

conversation."

"Dear me!" ejaculated Perseus; "I shall be afraid to say a syllable."

"She is a very accomplished person, I assure you," continued

Quicksilver, "and has all the arts and sciences at her fingers' ends. In

short, she is so immoderately wise, that many people call her wisdom

personified. But, to tell you the truth, she has hardly vivacity enough

for my taste; and I think you would scarcely find her so pleasant a

travelling companion as myself. She has her good points, nevertheless;

and you will find the benefit of them, in your encounter with the

Gorgons."

By this time it had grown quite dusk. They were now come to a very wild

and desert place, overgrown with shaggy bushes, and so silent and

solitary that nobody seemed ever to have dwelt or journeyed there. All

was waste and desolate, in the gray twilight, which grew every moment

more obscure. Perseus looked about him, rather disconsolately, and asked

Quicksilver whether they had a great deal farther to go.

"Hist! hist!" whispered his companion. "Make no noise! This is just the

time and place to meet the Three Gray Women. Be careful that they do not

see you before you see them; for, though they have but a single eye

among the three, it is as sharp sighted as half a dozen common eyes."

"But what must I do," asked Perseus, "when we meet them?"

Quicksilver explained to Perseus how the Three Gray Women managed with

their one eye. They were in the habit, it seems, of changing it from one

to another, as if it had been a pair of spectacles, or--which would have

suited them better--a quizzing glass. When one of the three had kept the

eye a certain time, she took it out of the socket and passed it to one

of her sisters, whose turn it might happen to be, and who immediately

clapped it into her own head, and enjoyed a peep at the visible world.

Thus it will easily be understood that only one of the Three Gray Women

could see, while the other two were in utter darkness; and, moreover, at

the instant when the eye was passing from hand to hand, neither of the

poor old ladies was able to see a wink. I have heard of a great many

strange things, in my day, and have witnessed not a few; but none, it

seems to me, that can compare with the oddity of these Three Gray Women,

all peeping through a single eye.

So thought Perseus, likewise, and was so astonished that he almost

fancied his companion was joking with him, and that there were no such

old women in the world.

"You will soon find whether I tell the truth or no," observed

Quicksilver. "Hark! hush! hist! hist! There they come, now!"

Perseus looked earnestly through the dusk of the evening, and there,

sure enough, at no great distance off, he descried the Three Gray Women.

The light being so faint, he could not well make out what sort of

figures they were; only he discovered that they had long gray hair; and,

as they came nearer, he saw that two of them had but the empty socket of

an eye, in the middle of their foreheads. But, in the middle of the

third sister's forehead, there was a very large, bright, and piercing

eye, which sparkled like a great diamond in a ring; and so penetrating

did it seem to be, that Perseus could not help thinking it must possess

the gift of seeing in the darkest midnight just as perfectly as at

noonday. The sight of three persons' eyes was melted and collected into

that single one.

Thus the three old dames got along about as comfortably, upon the whole,

as if they could all see at once. She who chanced to have the eye in her

forehead led the other two by the hands, peeping sharply about her, all

the while; insomuch that Perseus dreaded lest she should see right

through the thick clump of bushes behind which he and Quicksilver had

hidden themselves. My stars! it was positively terrible to be within

reach of so very sharp an eye!

But, before they reached the clump of bushes, one of the Three Gray

Women spoke.

"Sister! Sister Scarecrow!" cried she, "you have had the eye long

enough. It is my turn now!"

"Let me keep it a moment longer, Sister Nightmare," answered Scarecrow.

"I thought I had a glimpse of something behind that thick bush."

"Well, and what of that?" retorted Nightmare, peevishly. "Can't I see

into a thick bush as easily as yourself? The eye is mine as well as

yours; and I know the use of it as well as you, or maybe a little

better. I insist upon taking a peep immediately!"

But here the third sister, whose name was Shakejoint, began to complain,

and said that it was her turn to have the eye, and that Scarecrow and

Nightmare wanted to keep it all to themselves. To end the dispute, old

Dame Scarecrow took the eye out of her forehead, and held it forth in

her hand.

"Take it, one of you," cried she, "and quit this foolish quarrelling.

For my part, I shall be glad of a little thick darkness. Take it

quickly, however, or I must clap it into my own head again!"

Accordingly, both Nightmare and Shakejoint put out their hands, groping

eagerly to snatch the eye out of the hand of Scarecrow. But, being both

alike blind, they could not easily find where Scarecrow's hand was; and

Scarecrow, being now just as much in the dark as Shakejoint and

Nightmare, could not at once meet either of their hands, in order to put

the eye into it. Thus (as you will see, with half an eye, my wise little

auditors), these good old dames had fallen into a strange perplexity.

For, though the eye shone and glistened like a star, as Scarecrow held

it out, yet the Gray Women caught not the least glimpse of its light,

and were all three in utter darkness, from too impatient a desire to

see.

Quicksilver was so much tickled at beholding Shakejoint and Nightmare

both groping for the eye, and each finding fault with Scarecrow and one

another, that he could scarcely help laughing aloud.

"Now is your time!" he whispered to Perseus. "Quick, quick! before they

can clap the eye into either of their heads. Rush out upon the old

ladies, and snatch it from Scarecrow's hand!"

In an instant, while the Three Gray Women were still scolding each

other, Perseus leaped from behind the clump of bushes, and made himself

master of the prize. The marvellous eye, as he held it in his hand,

shone very brightly, and seemed to look up into his face with a knowing

air, and an expression as if it would have winked, had it been provided

with a pair of eyelids for that purpose. But the Gray Women knew nothing

of what had happened; and, each supposing that one of her sisters was in

possession of the eye, they began their quarrel anew. At last, as

Perseus did not wish to put these respectable dames to greater

inconvenience than was really necessary, he thought it right to explain

the matter.

"My good ladies," said he, "pray do not be angry with one another. If

anybody is in fault, it is myself; for I have the honour to hold your

very brilliant and excellent eye in my own hand!"

"You! you have our eye! And who are you?" screamed the Three Gray Women,

all in a breath; for they were terribly frightened, of course, at

hearing a strange voice, and discovering that their eyesight had got

into the hands of they could not guess whom. "Oh, what shall we do,

sisters? what shall we do? We are all in the dark! Give us our eye! Give

us our one, precious, solitary eye! You have two of your own! Give us

our eye!"

"Tell them," whispered Quicksilver to Perseus, "that they shall have

back the eye as soon as they direct you where to find the Nymphs who

have the flying slippers, the magic wallet, and the helmet of darkness."

"My dear, good, admirable old ladies," said Perseus, addressing the Gray

Women, "there is no occasion for putting yourselves into such a fright.

I am by no means a bad young man. You shall have back your eye, safe and

sound, and as bright as ever, the moment you tell me where to find the

Nymphs."

"The Nymphs! Goodness me! sisters, what Nymphs does he mean?" screamed

Scarecrow. "There are a great many Nymphs, people say; some that go a

hunting in the woods, and some that live inside of trees, and some that

have a comfortable home in fountains of water. We know nothing at all

about them. We are three unfortunate old souls, that go wandering about

in the dusk, and never had but one eye amongst us, and that one you have

stolen away. Oh, give it back, good stranger!--whoever you are, give it

back!"

All this while the Three Gray Women were groping with their outstretched

hands, and trying their utmost to get hold of Perseus. But he took good

care to keep out of their reach.

"My respectable dames," said he--for his mother had taught him always to

use the greatest civility--"I hold your eye fast in my hand, and shall

keep it safely for you, until you please to tell me where to find these

Nymphs. The Nymphs, I mean, who keep the enchanted wallet, the flying

slippers, and the what is it?--the helmet of invisibility."

"Mercy on us, sisters! what is the young man talking about?" exclaimed

Scarecrow, Nightmare and Shakejoint, one to another, with great

appearance of astonishment. "A pair of flying slippers, quoth he! His

heels would quickly fly higher than his head, if he was silly enough to

put them on. And a helmet of invisibility! How could a helmet make him

invisible, unless it were big enough for him to hide under it? And an

enchanted wallet! What sort of a contrivance may that be, I wonder? No,

no, good stranger! we can tell you nothing of these marvellous things.

You have two eyes of your own, and we have but a single one amongst us

three. You can find out such wonders better than three blind old

creatures, like us."

Perseus, hearing them talk in this way, began really to think that the

Gray Women knew nothing of the matter; and, as it grieved him to have

put them to so much trouble, he was just on the point of restoring their

eye and asking pardon for his rudeness in snatching it away. But

Quicksilver caught his hand.

"Don't let them make a fool of you!" said he. "These Three Gray Women

are the only persons in the world that can tell you where to find the

Nymphs; and, unless you get that information, you will never succeed in

cutting off the head of Medusa with the snaky locks. Keep fast hold of

the eye, and all will go well."

As it turned out, Quicksilver was in the right. There are but few things

that people prize so much as they do their eyesight; and the Gray Women

valued their single eye as highly as if it had been half a dozen, which

was the number they ought to have had. Finding that there was no other

way of recovering it, they at last told Perseus what he wanted to know.

No sooner had they done so, than he immediately, and with the utmost

respect, clapped the eye into the vacant socket in one of their

foreheads, thanked them for their kindness, and bade them farewell.

Before the young man was out of hearing, however, they had got into a

new dispute, because he happened to have given the eye to Scarecrow, who

had already taken her turn of it when their trouble with Perseus

commenced.

It is greatly to be feared that the Three Gray Women were very much in

the habit of disturbing their mutual harmony by bickerings of this sort;

which was the more pity, as they could not conveniently do without one

another, and were evidently intended to be inseparable companions. As a

general rule, I would advise all people, whether sisters or brothers,

old or young, who chance to have but one eye amongst them, to cultivate

forbearance, and not all insist upon peeping through it at once.

Quicksilver and Perseus, in the meantime, were making the best of their

way in quest of the Nymphs. The old dames had given them such particular

directions that they were not long in finding them out. They proved to

be very different persons from Nightmare, Shakejoint and Scarecrow; for,

instead of being old, they were young and beautiful; and instead of one

eye amongst the sisterhood, each Nymph had two exceedingly bright eyes

of her own, with which she looked very kindly at Perseus. They seemed to

be acquainted with Quicksilver; and, when he told them the adventure

which Perseus had undertaken, they made no difficulty about giving him

the valuable articles that were in their custody. In the first place,

they brought out what appeared to be a small purse, made of deer skin,

and curiously embroidered, and bade him be sure and keep it safe. This

was the magic wallet. The Nymphs next produced a pair of shoes, or

slippers, or sandals, with a nice little pair of wings at the heel of

each.

"Put them on, Perseus," said Quicksilver. "You will find yourself as

light heeled as you can desire for the remainder of our journey."

So Perseus proceeded to put one of the slippers on, while he laid the

other on the ground by his side. Unexpectedly, however, this other

slipper spread its wings, fluttered up off the ground, and would

probably have flown away, if Quicksilver had not made a leap, and

luckily caught it in the air.

"Be more careful," said he, as he gave it back to Perseus. "It would

frighten the birds, up aloft, if they should see a flying slipper

amongst them."

When Perseus had got on both of these wonderful slippers, he was

altogether too buoyant to tread on earth. Making a step or two, lo and

behold! upward he popped into the air, high above the heads of

Quicksilver and the Nymphs, and found it very difficult to clamber down

again. Winged slippers, and all such high-flying contrivances, are

seldom quite easy to manage until one grows a little accustomed to them.

Quicksilver laughed at his companion's involuntary activity, and told

him that he must not be in so desperate a hurry, but must wait for the

invisible helmet.

The good-natured Nymphs had the helmet, with its dark tuft of waving

plumes, all in readiness to put upon his head. And now there happened

about as wonderful an incident as anything that I have yet told you.

The instant before the helmet was put on, there stood Perseus, a

beautiful young man, with golden ringlets and rosy cheeks, the crooked

sword by his side, and the brightly polished shield upon his arm--a

figure that seemed all made up of courage, sprightliness, and glorious

light. But when the helmet had descended over his white brow, there was

no longer any Perseus to be seen! Nothing but empty air! Even the

helmet, that covered him with its invisibility, had vanished!

"Where are you, Perseus?" asked Quicksilver.

"Why, here, to be sure!" answered Perseus, very quietly, although his

voice seemed to come out of the transparent atmosphere. "Just where I

was a moment ago. Don't you see me?"

"No, indeed!" answered his friend. "You are hidden under the helmet.

But, if I cannot see you, neither can the Gorgons. Follow me, therefore,

and we will try your dexterity in using the winged slippers."

With these words, Quicksilver's cap spread its wings, as if his head

were about to fly away from his shoulders; but his whole figure rose

lightly into the air, and Perseus followed. By the time they had

ascended a few hundred feet, the young man began to feel what a

delightful thing it was to leave the dull earth so far beneath him, and

to be able to flit about like a bird.

It was now deep night. Perseus looked upward, and saw the round, bright,

silvery moon, and thought that he should desire nothing better than to

soar up thither, and spend his life there. Then he looked downward

again, and saw the earth, with its seas and lakes, and the silver

courses of its rivers, and its snowy mountain peaks, and the breadth of

its fields, and the dark cluster of its woods, and its cities of white

marble; and, with the moonshine sleeping over the whole scene, it was as

beautiful as the moon or any star could be. And, among other objects, he

saw the island of Seriphus, where his dear mother was. Sometimes he and

Quicksilver approached a cloud, that, at a distance, looked as if it

were made of fleecy silver; although, when they plunged into it, they

found themselves chilled and moistened with gray mist. So swift was

their flight, however, that, in an instant, they emerged from the cloud

into the moonlight again. Once, a high-soaring eagle flew right against

the invisible Perseus. The bravest sights were the meteors, that gleamed

suddenly out, as if a bonfire had been kindled in the sky, and made the

moonshine pale for as much as a hundred miles around them.

As the two companions flew onward, Perseus fancied that he could hear

the rustle of a garment close by his side; and it was on the side

opposite to the one where he beheld Quicksilver, yet only Quicksilver

was visible.

"Whose garment is this," inquired Perseus, "that keeps rustling close

beside me in the breeze?"

"Oh, it is my sister's!" answered Quicksilver. "She is coming along with

us, as I told you she would. We could do nothing without the help of my

sister. You have no idea how wise she is. She has such eyes, too! Why,

she can see you, at this moment, just as distinctly as if you were not

invisible; and I'll venture to say, she will be the first to discover

the Gorgons."

By this time, in their swift voyage through the air, they had come

within sight of the great ocean, and were soon flying over it. Far

beneath them, the waves tossed themselves tumultuously in mid-sea, or

rolled a white surf line upon the long beaches, or foamed against the

rocky cliffs, with a roar that was thunderous, in the lower world;

although it became a gentle murmur, like the voice of a baby half

asleep, before it reached the ears of Perseus. Just then a voice spoke

in the air close by him. It seemed to be a woman's voice, and was

melodious, though not exactly what might be called sweet, but grave and

mild.

"Perseus," said the voice, "there are the Gorgons."

"Where?" exclaimed Perseus. "I cannot see them."

"On the shore of that island beneath you," replied the voice. "A pebble,

dropped from your hand, would strike in the midst of them."

"I told you she would be the first to discover them," said Quicksilver

to Perseus. "And there they are!"

Straight downward, two or three thousand feet below him, Perseus

perceived a small island, with the sea breaking into white foam all

around its rocky shore, except on one side, where there was a beach of

snowy sand. He descended toward it, and, looking earnestly at a cluster

or heap of brightness, at the foot of a precipice of black rocks,

behold, there were the terrible Gorgons! They lay fast asleep, soothed

by the thunder of the sea; for it required a tumult that would have

deafened everybody else to lull such fierce creatures into slumber. The

moonlight glistened on their steely scales, and on their golden wings,

which drooped idly over the sand. Their brazen claws, horrible to look

at, were thrust out, and clutched the wave-beaten fragments of rock,

while the sleeping Gorgons dreamed of tearing some poor mortal all to

pieces. The snakes that served them instead of hair seemed likewise to

be asleep; although, now and then, one would writhe, and lift its head,

and thrust out its forked tongue, emitting a drowsy hiss, and then let

itself subside among its sister snakes.

The Gorgons were more like an awful, gigantic kind of insect--immense,

golden-winged beetles, or dragon-flies, or things of that sort--at once

ugly and beautiful--than like anything else; only that they were a

thousand and a million times as big. And, with all this, there was

something partly human about them, too. Luckily for Perseus, their faces

were completely hidden from him by the posture in which they lay; for,

had he but looked one instant at them, he would have fallen heavily out

of the air, an image of senseless stone.

"Now," whispered Quicksilver, as he hovered by the side of Perseus--"now

is your time to do the deed! Be quick; for, if one of the Gorgons should

awake, you are too late!"

"Which shall I strike at?" asked Perseus, drawing his sword and

descending a little lower. "They all three look alike. All three have

snaky locks. Which of the three is Medusa?"

It must be understood that Medusa was the only one of these dragon

monsters whose head Perseus could possibly cut off. As for the other

two, let him have the sharpest sword that ever was forged, and he might

have hacked away by the hour together, without doing them the least

harm.

"Be cautious," said the calm voice which had before spoken to him. "One

of the Gorgons is stirring in her sleep, and is just about to turn over.

That is Medusa. Do not look at her! The sight would turn you to stone!

Look at the reflection of her face and figure in the bright mirror of

your shield."

Perseus now understood Quicksilver's motive for so earnestly exhorting

him to polish his shield. In its surface he could safely look at the

reflection of the Gorgon's face. And there it was--that terrible

countenance--mirrored in the brightness of the shield, with the

moonlight falling over it, and displaying all its horror. The snakes,

whose venomous natures could not altogether sleep, kept twisting

themselves over the forehead. It was the fiercest and most horrible face

that ever was seen or imagined, and yet with a strange, fearful, and

savage kind of beauty in it. The eyes were closed, and the Gorgon was

still in a deep slumber; but there was an unquiet expression disturbing

her features, as if the monster was troubled with an ugly dream. She

gnashed her white tusks, and dug into the sand with her brazen claws.

The snakes, too, seemed to feel Medusa's dream, and to be made more

restless by it. They twined themselves into tumultuous knots, writhed

fiercely, and uplifted a hundred hissing heads, without opening their

eyes.

"Now, now!" whispered Quicksilver, who was growing impatient. "Make a

dash at the monster!"

"But be calm," said the grave, melodious voice at the young man's side.

"Look in your shield, as you fly downward, and take care that you do not

miss your first stroke."

Perseus flew cautiously downward, still keeping his eyes on Medusa's

face, as reflected in his shield. The nearer he came, the more terrible

did the snaky visage and metallic body of the monster grow. At last,

when he found himself hovering over her within arm's length, Perseus

uplifted his sword, while, at the same instant, each separate snake upon

the Gorgon's head stretched threateningly upward, and Medusa unclosed

her eyes. But she awoke too late. The sword was sharp; the stroke fell

like a lightning flash; and the head of the wicked Medusa tumbled from

her body!

"Admirably done!" cried Quicksilver. "Make haste, and clap the head into

your magic wallet."

To the astonishment of Perseus, the small, embroidered wallet, which he

had hung about his neck, and which had hitherto been no bigger than a

purse, grew all at once large enough to contain Medusa's head. As quick

as thought, he snatched it up, with the snakes still writhing upon it,

and thrust it in.

"Your task is done," said the calm voice. "Now fly; for the other

Gorgons will do their utmost to take vengeance for Medusa's death."

It was, indeed, necessary to take flight; for Perseus had not done the

deed so quietly but that the clash of his sword, and the hissing of the

snakes, and the thump of Medusa's head as it tumbled upon the sea-beaten

sand, awoke the other two monsters. There they sat, for an instant,

sleepily rubbing their eyes with their brazen fingers, while all the

snakes on their heads reared themselves on end with surprise, and with

venomous malice against they knew not what. But when the Gorgons saw the

scaly carcass of Medusa, headless, and her golden wings all ruffled and

half spread out on the sand, it was really awful to hear what yells and

screeches they set up. And then the snakes! They sent forth a

hundredfold hiss, with one consent, and Medusa's snakes answered them

out of the magic wallet.

No sooner were the Gorgons broad awake than they hurtled upward into the

air, brandishing their brass talons, gnashing their horrible tusks, and

flapping their huge wings so wildly, that some of the golden feathers

were shaken out, and floated down upon the shore. And there, perhaps,

those very feathers lie scattered till this day. Up rose the Gorgons, as

I tell you, staring horribly about, in hopes of turning somebody to

stone. Had Perseus looked them in the face, or had he fallen into their

clutches, his poor mother would never have kissed her boy again! But he

took good care to turn his eyes another way; and, as he wore the helmet

of invisibility, the Gorgons knew not in what direction to follow him;

nor did he fail to make the best use of the winged slippers, by soaring

upward a perpendicular mile or so. At that height, when the screams of

those abominable creatures sounded faintly beneath him, he made a

straight course for the island of Seriphus, in order to carry Medusa's

head to King Polydectes.

I have no time to tell you of several marvellous things that befell

Perseus on his way homeward; such as his killing a hideous sea monster,

just as it was on the point of devouring a beautiful maiden; nor how he

changed an enormous giant into a mountain of stone, merely by showing

him the head of the Gorgon. If you doubt this latter story, you may make

a voyage to Africa, some day or other, and see the very mountain, which

is still known by the ancient giant's name.

Finally, our brave Perseus arrived at the island, where he expected to

see his dear mother. But, during his absence, the wicked king had

treated Danaë so very ill that she was compelled to make her escape, and

had taken refuge in a temple, where some good old priests were extremely

kind to her. These praiseworthy priests, and the kind-hearted fisherman,

who had first shown hospitality to Danaë and little Perseus when he

found them afloat in the chest, seem to have been the only persons on

the island who cared about doing right. All the rest of the people, as

well as King Polydectes himself, were remarkably ill behaved, and

deserved no better destiny than that which was now to happen.

Not finding his mother at home, Perseus went straight to the palace, and

was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. Polydectes was by

no means rejoiced to see him; for he had felt almost certain, in his own

evil mind, that the Gorgons would have torn the poor young man to

pieces, and have eaten him up, out of the way. However, seeing him

safely returned, he put the best face he could upon the matter and asked

Perseus how he had succeeded.

"Have you performed your promise?" inquired he. "Have you brought me the

head of Medusa with the snaky locks? If not, young man, it will cost you

dear; for I must have a bridal present for the beautiful Princess

Hippodamia, and there is nothing else that she would admire so much."

"Yes, please Your Majesty," answered Perseus, in a quiet way, as if it

were no very wonderful deed for such a young man as he to perform. "I

have brought you the Gorgon's head, snaky locks and all!"

"Indeed! Pray let me see it," quoth King Polydectes. "It must be a very

curious spectacle, if all that travellers tell about it be true!"

"Your Majesty is in the right," replied Perseus. "It is really an object

that will be pretty certain to fix the regards of all who look at it.

And, if Your Majesty think fit, I would suggest that a holiday be

proclaimed, and that all Your Majesty's subjects be summoned to behold

this wonderful curiosity. Few of them, I imagine, have seen a Gorgon's

head before, and perhaps never may again!"

The king well knew that his subjects were an idle set of reprobates, and

very fond of sightseeing, as idle persons usually are. So he took the

young man's advice, and sent out heralds and messengers, in all

directions, to blow the trumpet at the street corners, and in the market

places, and wherever two roads met, and summon everybody to court.

Thither, accordingly, came a great multitude of good-for-nothing

vagabonds, all of whom, out of pure love of mischief, would have been

glad if Perseus had met with some ill-hap in his encounter with the

Gorgons. If there were any better people in the island (as I really hope

there may have been, although the story tells nothing about any such),

they stayed quietly at home, minding their business, and taking care of

their little children. Most of the inhabitants, at all events, ran as

fast as they could to the palace, and shoved, and pushed, and elbowed

one another in their eagerness to get near a balcony, on which Perseus

showed himself, holding the embroidered wallet in his hand.

On a platform, within full view of the balcony, sat the mighty King

Polydectes, amid his evil counsellors, and with his flattering courtiers

in a semi-circle round about him. Monarch, counsellors, courtiers, and

subjects, all gazed eagerly toward Perseus.

"Show us the head! Show us the head!" shouted the people; and there was

a fierceness in their cry as if they would tear Perseus to pieces,

unless he should satisfy them with what he had to show. "Show us the

head of Medusa with the snaky locks!"

A feeling of sorrow and pity came over the youthful Perseus.

"O King Polydectes," cried he, "and ye many people, I am very loath to

show you the Gorgon's head!"

"Ah, the villain and coward!" yelled the people, more fiercely than

before. "He is making game of us! He has no Gorgon's head! Show us the

head if you have it, or we will take your own head for a football!"

The evil counsellors whispered bad advice in the king's ear; the

courtiers murmured, with one consent, that Perseus had shown disrespect

to their royal lord and master; and the great King Polydectes himself

waved his hand, and ordered him, with the stern, deep voice of

authority, on his peril, to produce the head.

"Show me the Gorgon's head, or I will cut off your own!"

And Perseus sighed.

"This instant," repeated Polydectes, "or you die!"

"Behold it then!" cried Perseus, in a voice like the blast of a trumpet.

And, suddenly holding up the head, not an eyelid had time to wink before

the wicked King Polydectes, his evil counsellors, and all his fierce

subjects were no longer anything but the mere images of a monarch and

his people. They were all fixed, forever, in the look and attitude of

that moment! At the first glimpse of the terrible head of Medusa, they

whitened into marble! And Perseus thrust the head back into his wallet,

and went to tell his dear mother that she need no longer be afraid of

the wicked King Polydectes.

CHAPTER VI

THE DRAGON'S TEETH

Cadmus, Phœnix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, and their

little sister Europa (who was a very beautiful child) were at play

together, near the seashore, in their father's kingdom of Phœnicia.

They had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents

dwelt, and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the

sea, all sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently

against the beach. The three boys were very happy, gathering flowers,

and twining them into garlands, with which they adorned the little

Europa. Seated on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an

abundance of buds and blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily out,

and, as Cadmus said, was the prettiest of all the flowers.

Just then, there came a splendid butterfly, fluttering along the meadow;

and Cadmus, Phœnix, and Cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out

that it was a flower with wings. Europa, who was a little wearied with

playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers, but

sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes. For a while, she

listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a voice

saying "Hush!" and bidding her go to sleep. But the pretty child, if she

slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment, when she heard

something trample on the grass, not far from her, and peeping out from

the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull.

And whence could this bull have come? Europa and her brothers had been a

long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other

living thing, either there or on the neighbouring hills.

"Brother Cadmus!" cried Europa, starting up out of the midst of the

roses and lilies. "Phœnix! Cilix! Where are you all? Help! Help! Come

and drive away this bull!"

But her brothers were too far off to hear; especially as the fright took

away Europa's voice, and hindered her from calling very loudly. So there

she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white lilies

that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands.

Nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the

bull, rather than anything frightful in his appearance, that caused

Europa so much alarm. On looking at him more attentively, she began to

see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly

amiable expression in his face. As for his breath--the breath of cattle,

you know, is always sweet--it was as fragrant as if he had been grazing

on no other food than rosebuds, or, at least, the most delicate of

clover blossoms. Never before did a bull have such bright and tender

eyes, and such smooth horns of ivory, as this one. And the bull ran

little races, and capered sportively around the child; so that she quite

forgot how big and strong he was, and, from the gentleness and

playfulness of his actions, soon came to consider him as innocent a

creature as a pet lamb.

Thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen

Europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and

taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and ivory

horns. Then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them out of

her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be friends

with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had touched. Well,

my stars! was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty, and amiable

creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a little girl?

When the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is

really wonderful to think of), when he saw that Europa was no longer

afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself for

delight. He frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making

sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping from

twig to twig. Indeed, his motion was as light as if he were flying

through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their print in the

grassy soil over which he trod. With his spotless hue, he resembled a

snowdrift, wafted along by the wind. Once he galloped so far away that

Europa feared lest she might never see him again; so, setting up her

childish voice, she called him back.

"Come back, pretty creature!" she cried. "Here is a nice clover

blossom."

And then it was delightful to witness the gratitude of this amiable

bull, and how he was so full of joy and thankfulness that he capered

higher than ever. He came running, and bowed his head before Europa, as

if he knew her to be a king's daughter, or else recognised the important

truth that a little girl is everybody's queen. And not only did the bull

bend his neck, he absolutely knelt down at her feet, and made such

intelligent nods, and other inviting gestures, that Europa understood

what he meant just as well as if he had put it in so many words.

"Come, dear child," was what he wanted to say, "let me give you a ride

on my back."

At the first thought of such a thing, Europa drew back. But then she

considered in her wise little head that there could be no possible harm

in taking just one gallop on the back of this docile and friendly

animal, who would certainly set her down the very instant she desired

it. And how it would surprise her brothers to see her riding across the

green meadow! And what merry times they might have, either taking turns

for a gallop, or clambering on the gentle creature, all four children

together, and careering round the field with shouts of laughter that

would be heard as far off as King Agenor's palace!

"I think I will do it," said the child to herself.

And, indeed, why not? She cast a glance around, and caught a glimpse of

Cadmus, Phœnix, and Cilix, who were still in pursuit of the

butterfly, almost at the other end of the meadow. It would be the

quickest way of rejoining them, to get upon the white bull's back. She

came a step nearer to him, therefore; and--sociable creature that he

was--he showed so much joy at this mark of her confidence, that the

child could not find it in her heart to hesitate any longer. Making one

bound (for this little princess was as active as a squirrel), there sat

Europa on the beautiful bull, holding an ivory horn in each hand, lest

she should fall off.

"Softly, pretty bull, softly!" she said, rather frightened at what she

had done. "Do not gallop too fast."

Having got the child on his back, the animal gave a leap into the air,

and came down so like a feather that Europa did not know when his hoofs

touched the ground. He then began a race to that part of the flowery

plain where her three brothers were, and where they had just caught

their splendid butterfly. Europa screamed with delight; and Phœnix,

Cilix, and Cadmus stood gaping at the spectacle of their sister mounted

on a white bull, not knowing whether to be frightened or to wish the

same good luck for themselves. The gentle and innocent creature (for who

could possibly doubt that he was so?) pranced round among the children

as sportively as a kitten. Europa all the while looked down upon her

brothers, nodding and laughing, but yet with a sort of stateliness in

her rosy little face. As the bull wheeled about to take another gallop

across the meadow, the child waved her hand, and said, "Good-by,"

playfully pretending that she was now bound on a distant journey, and

might not see her brothers again for nobody could tell how long.

"Good-by," shouted Cadmus, Phœnix, and Cilix, all in one breath.

But, together with her enjoyment of the sport, there was still a little

remnant of fear in the child's heart; so that her last look at the three

boys was a troubled one, and made them feel as if their dear sister were

really leaving them forever. And what do you think the snowy bull did

next? Why, he set off, as swift as the wind, straight down to the

seashore, scampered across the sand, took an airy leap, and plunged

right in among the foaming billows. The white spray rose in a shower

over him and little Europa, and fell spattering down upon the water.

Then what a scream of terror did the poor child send forth! The three

brothers screamed manfully, likewise, and ran to the shore as fast as

their legs would carry them, with Cadmus at their head. But it was too

late. When they reached the margin of the sand, the treacherous animal

was already far away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and

tail emerging, and poor little Europa between them, stretching out one

hand toward her dear brothers, while she grasped the bull's ivory horn

with the other. And there stood Cadmus, Phœnix, and Cilix, gazing at

this sad spectacle, through their tears, until they could no longer

distinguish the bull's snowy head from the white-capped billows that

seemed to boil up out of the sea's depths around him. Nothing more was

ever seen of the white bull--nothing more of the beautiful child.

This was a mournful story, as you may well think, for the three boys to

carry home to their parents. King Agenor, their father, was the ruler of

the whole country; but he loved his little daughter Europa better than

his kingdom, or than all his other children, or than anything else in

the world. Therefore, when Cadmus and his two brothers came crying home,

and told him how that a white bull had carried off their sister, and

swam with her over the sea, the king was quite beside himself with grief

and rage. Although it was now twilight, and fast growing dark, he bade

them set out instantly in search of her.

"Never shall you see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring me back

my little Europa, to gladden me with her smiles and her pretty ways.

Begone, and enter my presence no more, till you come leading her by the

hand."

As King Agenor said this, his eyes flashed fire (for he was a very

passionate king), and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys did

not even venture to ask for their suppers, but slunk away out of the

palace, and only paused on the steps a moment to consult whither they

should go first. While they were standing there, all in dismay, their

mother, Queen Telephassa (who happened not to be by when they told the

story to the king), came hurrying after them, and said that she, too,

would go in quest of her daughter.

"Oh no, mother!" cried the boys. "The night is dark, and there is no

knowing what troubles and perils we may meet with."

"Alas! my dear children," answered poor Queen Telephassa, weeping

bitterly, "that is only another reason why I should go with you. If I

should lose you, too, as well as my little Europa, what would become of

me?"

"And let me go likewise!" said their playfellow Thasus, who came running

to join them.

Thasus was the son of a seafaring person in the neighbourhood; he had

been brought up with the young princess, and was their intimate friend,

and loved Europa very much; so they consented that he should accompany

them. The whole party, therefore, set forth together; Cadmus, Phœnix,

Cilix and Thasus clustered round Queen Telephassa, grasping her skirts,

and begging her to lean upon their shoulders whenever she felt weary. In

this manner they went down the palace steps, and began a journey which

turned out to be a great deal longer than they dreamed of. The last that

they saw of King Agenor, he came to the door, with a servant holding a

torch beside him, and called after them into the gathering darkness:

"Remember! Never ascend these steps again without the child!"

"Never!" sobbed Queen Telephassa; and the three brothers and Thasus

answered, "Never! Never! Never! Never!"

And they kept their word. Year after year King Agenor sat in the

solitude of his beautiful palace, listening in vain for their returning

footsteps, hoping to hear the familiar voice of the queen, and the

cheerful talk of his sons and their playfellow Thasus, entering the

door together, and the sweet, childish accents of little Europa in the

midst of them. But so long a time went by, that, at last, if they had

really come, the king would not have known that this was the voice of

Telephassa, and these the younger voices that used to make such joyful

echoes when the children were playing about the palace. We must now

leave King Agenor to sit on his throne, and must go along with Queen

Telephassa and her four youthful companions.

They went on and on, and travelled a long way, and passed over mountains

and rivers, and sailed over seas. Here, and there, and everywhere, they

made continual inquiry if any person could tell them what had become of

Europa. The rustic people, of whom they asked this question, paused a

little while from their labours in the field, and looked very much

surprised. They thought it strange to behold a woman in the garb of a

queen (for Telephassa, in her haste, had forgotten to take off her crown

and her royal robes), roaming about the country, with four lads around

her, on such an errand as this seemed to be. But nobody could give them

any tidings of Europa; nobody had seen a little girl dressed like a

princess, and mounted on a snow-white bull, which galloped as swiftly as

the wind.

I cannot tell you how long Queen Telephassa, and Cadmus, Phœnix, and

Cilix, her three sons, and Thasus, their playfellow, went wandering

along the highways and bypaths, or through the pathless wildernesses of

the earth, in this manner. But certain it is, that, before they reached

any place of rest, their splendid garments were quite worn out. They all

looked very much travel stained, and would have had the dust of many

countries on their shoes, if the streams, through which they waded, had

not washed it all away. When they had been gone a year, Telephassa threw

away her crown, because it chafed her forehead.

"It has given me many a headache," said the poor queen, "and it cannot

cure my heartache."

As fast as their princely robes got torn and tattered, they exchanged

them for such mean attire as ordinary people wore. By and by they came

to have a wild and homeless aspect; so that you would much sooner have

taken them for a gypsy family than a queen and three princes, and a

young nobleman, who had once a palace for their home, and a train of

servants to do their bidding. The four boys grew up to be tall young

men, with sunburnt faces. Each of them girded on a sword, to defend

themselves against the perils of the way. When the husbandmen, at whose

farmhouses they sought hospitality, needed their assistance in the

harvest field, they gave it willingly; and Queen Telephassa (who had

done no work in her palace, save to braid silk threads with golden ones)

came behind them to bind the sheaves. If payment was offered, they shook

their heads, and only asked for tidings of Europa.

"There are bulls enough in my pasture," the old farmers would reply;

"but I never heard of one like this you tell me of. A snow-white bull

with a little princess on his back! Ho! ho! I ask your pardon, good

folks; but there never was such a sight seen hereabouts."

At last, when his upper lip began to have the down on it, Phœnix grew

weary of rambling hither and thither to no purpose. So, one day, when

they happened to be passing through a pleasant and solitary tract of

country, he sat himself down on a heap of moss.

"I can go no farther," said Phœnix. "It is a mere foolish waste of

life, to spend it, as we do, in always wandering up and down, and never

coming to any home at nightfall. Our sister is lost, and never will be

found. She probably perished in the sea; or, to whatever shore the white

bull may have carried her, it is now so many years ago, that there would

be neither love nor acquaintance between us should we meet again. My

father has forbidden us to return to his palace; so I shall build me a

hut of branches, and dwell here."

"Well, son Phœnix," said Telephassa, sorrowfully, "you have grown to

be a man, and must do as you judge best. But, for my part, I will still

go in quest of my poor child."

"And we three will go along with you!" cried Cadmus and Cilix, and their

faithful friend Thasus.

But, before setting out, they all helped Phœnix to build a

habitation. When completed, it was a sweet rural bower, roofed overhead

with an arch of living boughs. Inside there were two pleasant rooms, one

of which had a soft heap of moss for a bed, while the other was

furnished with a rustic seat or two, curiously fashioned out of the

crooked roots of trees. So comfortable and homelike did it seem, that

Telephassa and her three companions could not help sighing, to think

that they must still roam about the world, instead of spending the

remainder of their lives in some such cheerful abode as they had here

built for Phœnix. But, when they bade him farewell, Phœnix shed

tears, and probably regretted that he was no longer to keep them

company.

However, he had fixed upon an admirable place to dwell in. And by and by

there came other people, who chanced to have no homes; and, seeing how

pleasant a spot it was, they built themselves huts in the neighbourhood

of Phœnix's habitation. Thus, before many years went by, a city had

grown up there, in the centre of which was seen a stately palace of

marble, wherein dwelt Phœnix, clothed in a purple robe, and wearing a

golden crown upon his head. For the inhabitants of the new city, finding

that he had royal blood in his veins, had chosen him to be their king.

The very first decree of state which King Phœnix issued was, that if

a maiden happened to arrive in the kingdom, mounted on a snow-white

bull, and calling herself Europa, his subjects should treat her with the

greatest kindness and respect, and immediately bring her to the palace.

You may see, by this, that Phœnix's conscience never quite ceased to

trouble him, for giving up the quest of his dear sister, and sitting

himself down to be comfortable, while his mother and her companions went

onward.

But often and often, at the close of a weary day's journey, did

Telephassa and Cadmus, Cilix and Thasus, remember the pleasant spot in

which they had left Phœnix. It was a sorrowful prospect for these

wanderers, that on the morrow they must again set forth, and that, after

many nightfalls, they would perhaps be no nearer the close of their

toilsome pilgrimage than now. These thoughts made them all melancholy at

times, but appeared to torment Cilix more than the rest of the party. At

length, one morning, when they were taking their staffs in hand to set

out, he thus addressed them:

"My dear mother, and you good brother Cadmus, and my friend Thasus,

methinks we are like people in a dream. There is no substance in the

life which we are leading. It is such a dreary length of time since the

white bull carried off my sister Europa, that I have quite forgotten

how she looked, and the tones of her voice, and, indeed, almost doubt

whether such a little girl ever lived in the world. And whether she once

lived or no, I am convinced that she no longer survives, and that

therefore it is the merest folly to waste our own lives and happiness in

seeking her. Were we to find her, she would now be a woman grown, and

would look upon us all as strangers. So, to tell you the truth, I have

resolved to take up my abode here; and I entreat you, mother, brother,

and friend, to follow my example."

"Not I, for one," said Telephassa; although the poor queen, firmly as

she spoke, was so travel worn that she could hardly put her foot to the

ground--"not I, for one! In the depths of my heart, little Europa is

still the rosy child who ran to gather flowers so many years ago. She

has not grown to womanhood, nor forgotten me. At noon, at night,

journeying onward, sitting down to rest, her childish voice is always in

my ears, calling, 'Mother! mother!' Stop here who may, there is no

repose for me."

"Nor for me," said Cadmus, "while my dear mother pleases to go onward."

And the faithful Thasus, too, was resolved to bear them company. They

remained with Cilix a few days, however, and helped him to build a

rustic bower, resembling the one which they had formerly built for

Phœnix.

When they were bidding him farewell, Cilix burst into tears, and told

his mother that it seemed just as melancholy a dream to stay there, in

solitude, as to go onward. If she really believed that they would ever

find Europa, he was willing to continue the search with them, even now.

But Telephassa bade him remain there, and be happy, if his own heart

would let him. So the pilgrims took their leave of him, and departed,

and were hardly out of sight before some other wandering people came

along that way, and saw Cilix's habitation, and were greatly delighted

with the appearance of the place. There being abundance of unoccupied

ground in the neighbourhood, these strangers built huts for themselves,

and were soon joined by a multitude of new settlers, who quickly formed

a city. In the middle of it was seen a magnificent palace of coloured

marble, on the balcony of which, every noontide, appeared Cilix, in a

long purple robe, and with a jewelled crown upon his head; for the

inhabitants, when they found out that he was a king's son, had

considered him the fittest of all men to be a king himself.

One of the first acts of King Cilix's government was to send out an

expedition, consisting of a grave ambassador and an escort of bold and

hardy young men, with orders to visit the principal kingdoms of the

earth, and inquire whether a young maiden had passed through those

regions, galloping swiftly on a white bull. It is, therefore, plain to

my mind, that Cilix secretly blamed himself for giving up the search for

Europa, as long as he was able to put one foot before the other.

As for Telephassa, and Cadmus, and the good Thasus, it grieves me to

think of them, still keeping up that weary pilgrimage. The two young men

did their best for the poor queen, helping her over the rough places,

often carrying her across rivulets in their faithful arms, and seeking

to shelter her at nightfall, even when they themselves lay on the

ground. Sad, sad it was to hear them asking of every passerby if he had

seen Europa, so long after the white bull had carried her away. But,

though the gray years thrust themselves between, and made the child's

figure dim in their remembrance, neither of these true-hearted three

ever dreamed of giving up the search.

One morning, however, poor Thasus found that he had sprained his ankle,

and could not possibly go a step farther.

"After a few days, to be sure," said he, mournfully, "I might make shift

to hobble along with a stick. But that would only delay you, and perhaps

hinder you from finding dear little Europa, after all your pains and

trouble. Do you go forward, therefore, my beloved companions, and leave

me to follow as I may."

"Thou hast been a true friend, dear Thasus," said Queen Telephassa,

kissing his forehead. "Being neither my son, nor the brother of our lost

Europa, thou hast shown thyself truer to me and her than Phœnix and

Cilix did, whom we have left behind us. Without thy loving help, and

that of my son Cadmus, my limbs could not have borne me half so far as

this. Now, take thy rest, and be at peace. For--and it is the first time

I have owned it to myself--I begin to question whether we shall ever

find my beloved daughter in this world."

Saying this, the poor queen shed tears, because it was a grievous trial

to the mother's heart to confess that her hopes were growing faint. From

that day forward, Cadmus noticed that she never travelled with the same

alacrity of spirit that had heretofore supported her. Her weight was

heavier upon his arm.

Before setting out, Cadmus helped Thasus build a bower; while

Telephassa, being too infirm to give any great assistance, advised them

how to fit it up and furnish it, so that it might be as comfortable as a

hut of branches could. Thasus, however, did not spend all his days in

this green bower. For it happened to him, as to Phœnix and Cilix,

that other homeless people visited the spot and liked it, and built

themselves habitations in the neighbourhood. So here, in the course of

a few years, was another thriving city with a red freestone palace in

the centre of it, where Thasus set upon a throne, doing justice to the

people, with a purple robe over his shoulders, a sceptre in his hand,

and a crown upon his head. The inhabitants had made him king, not for

the sake of any royal blood (for none was in his veins), but because

Thasus was an upright, true-hearted, and courageous man, and therefore

fit to rule.

But, when the affairs of his kingdom were all settled, King Thasus laid

aside his purple robe, and crown, and sceptre, and bade his worthiest

subject distribute justice to the people in his stead. Then, grasping

the pilgrim's staff that had supported him so long, he set forth again,

hoping still to discover some hoof mark of the snow-white bull, some

trace of the vanished child. He returned, after a lengthened absence,

and sat down wearily upon his throne. To his latest hour, nevertheless,

King Thasus showed his true-hearted remembrance of Europa, by ordering

that a fire should always be kept burning in his palace, and a bath

steaming hot, and food ready to be served up, and a bed with snow-white

sheets, in case the maiden should arrive, and require immediate

refreshment. And though Europa never came, the good Thasus had the

blessings of many a poor traveller, who profited by the food and lodging

which were meant for the little playmate of the king's boyhood.

Telephassa and Cadmus were now pursuing their weary way, with no

companion but each other. The queen leaned heavily upon her son's arm,

and could walk only a few miles a day. But for all her weakness and

weariness, she would not be persuaded to give up the search. It was

enough to bring tears into the eyes of bearded men to hear the

melancholy tone with which she inquired of every stranger whether he

could tell her any news of the lost child.

"Have you seen a little girl--no, no, I mean a young maiden of full

growth--passing by this way, mounted on a snow-white bull, which gallops

as swiftly as the wind?"

"We have seen no such wondrous sight," the people would reply; and very

often, taking Cadmus aside, they whispered to him, "Is this stately and

sad-looking woman your mother? Surely she is not in her right mind; and

you ought to take her home, and make her comfortable, and do your best

to get this dream out of her fancy."

"It is no dream," said Cadmus. "Everything else is a dream, save that."

But, one day, Telephassa seemed feebler than usual, and leaned almost

her whole weight on the arm of Cadmus, and walked more slowly than ever

before. At last they reached a solitary spot, where she told her son

that she must needs lie down, and take a good, long rest.

"A good, long rest!" she repeated, looking Cadmus tenderly in the

face--"a good, long rest, thou dearest one!"

"As long as you please, dear mother," answered Cadmus.

Telephassa bade him sit down on the turf beside her, and then she took

his hand.

"My son," said she, fixing her dim eyes most lovingly upon him, "this

rest that I speak of will be very long indeed! You must not wait till it

is finished. Dear Cadmus, you do not comprehend me. You must make a

grave here, and lay your mother's weary frame into it. My pilgrimage is

over."

Cadmus burst into tears, and, for a long time, refused to believe that

his dear mother was now to be taken from him. But Telephassa reasoned

with him, and kissed him, and at length made him discern that it was

better for her spirit to pass away out of the toil, the weariness, the

grief, and disappointment which had burdened her on earth, ever since

the child was lost. He therefore repressed his sorrow, and listened to

her last words.

"Dearest Cadmus," said she, "thou hast been the truest son that ever

mother had, and faithful to the very last. Who else would have borne

with my infirmities as thou hast! It is owing to thy care, thou

tenderest child, that my grave was not dug long years ago, in some

valley, or on some hillside, that lies far, far behind us. It is enough.

Thou shalt wander no more on this hopeless search. But when thou hast

laid thy mother in the earth, then go, my son, to Delphi, and inquire of

the oracle what thou shalt do next."

"O mother, mother," cried Cadmus, "couldst thou but have seen my sister

before this hour!"

"It matters little now," answered Telephassa, and there was a smile upon

her face. "I go now to the better world, and, sooner or later, shall

find my daughter there."

I will not sadden you, my little hearers, with telling how Telephassa

died and was buried, but will only say, that her dying smile grew

brighter, instead of vanishing from her dead face; so that Cadmus felt

convinced that, at her very first step into the better world, she had

caught Europa in her arms. He planted some flowers on his mother's

grave, and left them to grow there, and make the place beautiful, when

he should be far away.

After performing this last sorrowful duty, he set forth alone, and took

the road toward the famous oracle of Delphi, as Telephassa had advised

him. On his way thither, he still inquired of most people whom he met

whether they had seen Europa; for, to say the truth, Cadmus had grown so

accustomed to ask the question, that it came to his lips as readily as a

remark about the weather. He received various answers. Some told him one

thing, and some another. Among the rest, a mariner affirmed, that, many

years before, in a distant country, he had heard a rumour about a white

bull, which came swimming across the sea with a child on his back,

dressed up in flowers that were blighted by the sea water. He did not

know what had become of the child or the bull; and Cadmus suspected,

indeed, by a queer twinkle in the mariner's eyes, that he was putting a

joke upon him, and had never really heard anything about the matter.

Poor Cadmus found it more wearisome to travel alone than to bear all his

dear mother's weight while she had kept him company. His heart, you will

understand, was now so heavy that it seemed impossible, sometimes, to

carry it any farther. But his limbs were strong and active and well

accustomed to exercise. He walked swiftly along, thinking of King Agenor

and Queen Telephassa, and his brothers, and the friendly Thasus, all of

whom he had left behind him, at one point of his pilgrimage or another,

and never expected to see them any more. Full of these remembrances, he

came within sight of a lofty mountain, which the people thereabouts told

him was called Parnassus. On the slope of Mount Parnassus was the famous

Delphi, whither Cadmus was going.

This Delphi was supposed to be the very midmost spot of the whole world.

The place of the oracle was a certain cavity in the mountain side, over

which, when Cadmus came thither, he found a rude bower of branches. It

reminded him of those which he had helped to build for Phoenix and

Cilix, and afterward for Thasus. In later times, when multitudes of

people came from great distances to put questions to the oracle, a

spacious temple of marble was erected over the spot. But in the days of

Cadmus, as I have told you, there was only this rustic bower, with its

abundance of green foliage, and a tuft of shrubbery, that ran wild over

the mysterious hole in the hillside.

When Cadmus had thrust a passage through the tangled boughs, and made

his way into the bower, he did not at first discern the half-hidden

cavity. But soon he felt a cold stream of air rushing out of it, with so

much force that it shook the ringlets on his cheek. Pulling away the

shrubbery which clustered over the hole, he bent forward, and spoke in a

distinct but reverential tone, as if addressing some unseen personage

inside of the mountain.

"Sacred oracle of Delphi," said he, "whither shall I go next in quest of

my dear sister Europa?"

There was at first a deep silence, and then a rushing sound, or a noise

like a long sigh, proceeding out of the interior of the earth. This

cavity, you must know, was looked upon as a sort of fountain of truth,

which sometimes gushed out in audible words; although, for the most

part, these words were such a riddle that they might just as well have

stayed at the bottom of the hole. But Cadmus was more fortunate than

many others who went to Delphi in search of truth. By and by, the

rushing noise began to sound like articulate language. It repeated, over

and over again, the following sentence, which, after all, was so like

the vague whistle of a blast of air, that Cadmus really did not quite

know whether it meant anything or not:

"Seek her no more! Seek her no more! Seek her no more!"

"What, then, shall I do?" asked Cadmus.

For, ever since he was a child, you know, it had been the great object

of his life to find his sister. From the very hour that he left

following the butterfly in the meadow, near his father's palace, he had

done his best to follow Europa, over land and sea. And now, if he must

give up the search, he seemed to have no more business in the world.

But again the sighing gust of air grew into something like a hoarse

voice.

"Follow the cow!" it said. "Follow the cow! Follow the cow!"

And when these words had been repeated until Cadmus was tired of hearing

them (especially as he could not imagine what cow it was, or why he was

to follow her), the gusty hole gave vent to another sentence.

"Where the stray cow lies down, there is your home."

These words were pronounced but a single time, and died away into a

whisper before Cadmus was fully satisfied that he had caught the

meaning. He put other questions, but received no answer; only the gust

of wind sighed continually out of the cavity, and blew the withered

leaves rustling along the ground before it.

"Did there really come any words out of the hole?" thought Cadmus; "or

have I been dreaming all this while?"

He turned away from the oracle, and thought himself no wiser than when

he came thither. Caring little what might happen to him, he took the

first path that offered itself, and went along at a sluggish pace; for,

having no object in view, nor any reason to go one way more than

another, it would certainly have been foolish to make haste. Whenever he

met anybody, the old question was at his tongue's end:

"Have you seen a beautiful maiden, dressed like a king's daughter, and

mounted on a snow-white bull, that gallops as swiftly as the wind?"

But, remembering what the oracle had said, he only half uttered the

words, and then mumbled the rest indistinctly; and from his confusion,

people must have imagined that this handsome young man had lost his

wits.

I know not how far Cadmus had gone, nor could he himself have told you,

when, at no great distance before him, he beheld a brindled cow. She was

lying down by the wayside, and quietly chewing her cud; nor did she take

any notice of the young man until he had approached pretty nigh. Then,

getting leisurely upon her feet, and giving her head a gentle toss, she

began to move along at a moderate pace, often pausing just long enough

to crop a mouthful of grass. Cadmus loitered behind, whistling idly to

himself, and scarcely noticing the cow; until the thought occurred to

him, whether this could possibly be the animal which, according to the

oracle's response, was to serve him for a guide. But he smiled at

himself for fancying such a thing. He could not seriously think that

this was the cow, because she went along so quietly, behaving just like

any other cow. Evidently she neither knew nor cared so much as a wisp of

hay about Cadmus, and was only thinking how to get her living along the

wayside, where the herbage was green and fresh. Perhaps she was going

home to be milked.

"Cow, cow, cow!" cried Cadmus. "Hey, Brindle, hey! Stop, my good cow."

He wanted to come up with the cow, so as to examine her, and see if she

would appear to know him, or whether there were any peculiarities to

distinguish her from a thousand other cows, whose only business is to

fill the milk pail, and sometimes kick it over. But still the brindled

cow trudged on, whisking her tail to keep the flies away, and taking as

little notice of Cadmus as she well could. If he walked slowly, so did

the cow, and seized the opportunity to graze. If he quickened his pace,

the cow went just so much the faster; and once, when Cadmus tried to

catch her by running, she threw out her heels, stuck her tail straight

on end, and set off at a gallop, looking as queerly as cows generally

do, while putting themselves to their speed.

When Cadmus saw that it was impossible to come up with her, he walked on

moderately, as before. The cow, too, went leisurely on, without looking

behind. Wherever the grass was greenest, there she nibbled a mouthful or

two. Where a brook glistened brightly across the path, there the cow

drank, and breathed a comfortable sigh, and drank again, and trudged

onward at the pace that best suited herself and Cadmus.

"I do believe," thought Cadmus, "that this may be the cow that was

foretold me. If it be the one, I suppose she will lie down somewhere

hereabouts."

Whether it were the oracular cow or some other one, it did not seem

reasonable that she should travel a great way farther. So, whenever they

reached a particularly pleasant spot on a breezy hillside, or in a

sheltered vale, or flowery meadow, on the shore of a calm lake, or along

the bank of a clear stream, Cadmus looked eagerly around to see if the

situation would suit him for a home. But still, whether he liked the

place or no, the brindled cow never offered to lie down. On she went at

the quiet pace of a cow going homeward to the barnyard; and, every

moment Cadmus expected to see a milkmaid approaching with a pail, or a

herdsman running to head the stray animal, and turn her back toward the

pasture. But no milkmaid came; no herdsman drove her back; and Cadmus

followed the stray brindle till he was almost ready to drop down with

fatigue.

"O brindled cow," cried he, in a tone of despair, "do you never mean to

stop?"

He had now grown too intent on following her to think of lagging behind,

however long the way, and whatever might be his fatigue. Indeed, it

seemed as if there were something about the animal that bewitched

people. Several persons who happened to see the brindled cow, and Cadmus

following behind, began to trudge after her, precisely as he did. Cadmus

was glad of somebody to converse with, and therefore talked very freely

to these good people. He told them all his adventures, and how he had

left King Agenor in his palace, and Phœnix at one place, and Cilix at

another, and Thasus at a third, and his dear mother, Queen Telephassa,

under a flowery sod; so that now he was quite alone, both friendless and

homeless. He mentioned, likewise, that the oracle had bidden him be

guided by a cow, and inquired of the strangers whether they supposed

that this brindled animal could be the one.

"Why, 'tis a very wonderful affair," answered one of his new companions.

"I am pretty well acquainted with the ways of cattle, and I never knew a

cow, of her own accord, to go so far without stopping. If my legs will

let me, I'll never leave following the beast till she lies down."

"Nor I!" said a second.

"Nor I!" cried a third. "If she goes a hundred miles farther, I'm

determined to see the end of it."

The secret of it was, you must know, that the cow was an enchanted cow,

and that, without their being conscious of it, she threw some of her

enchantment over everybody that took so much as half a dozen steps

behind her. They could not possibly help following her, though, all the

time, they fancied themselves doing it of their own accord. The cow was

by no means very nice in choosing her path; so that sometimes they had

to scramble over rocks, or wade through mud and mire, and were all in a

terribly bedraggled condition, and tired to death, and very hungry, into

the bargain. What a weary business it was!

But still they kept trudging stoutly forward, and talking as they went.

The strangers grew very fond of Cadmus, and resolved never to leave him,

but to help him build a city wherever the cow might lie down. In the

centre of it there should be a noble palace, in which Cadmus might

dwell, and be their king, with a throne, a crown and sceptre, a purple

robe, and everything else that a king ought to have; for in him there

was the royal blood, and the royal heart, and the head that knew how to

rule.

While they were talking of these schemes, and beguiling the tediousness

of the way with laying out the plan of the new city, one of the company

happened to look at the cow.

"Joy! joy!" cried he, clapping his hands. "Brindle is going to lie

down."

They all looked; and, sure enough, the cow had stopped and was staring

leisurely about her, as other cows do when on the point of lying down.

And slowly, slowly did she recline herself on the soft grass, first

bending her fore legs, and then crouching her hind ones. When Cadmus and

his companions came up with her, there was the brindled cow taking her

ease, chewing her cud, and looking them quietly in the face; as if this

was just the spot she had been seeking for, and as if it were all a

matter of course.

"This, then," said Cadmus, gazing around him, "this is to be my home."

It was a fertile and lovely plain, with great trees flinging their

sun-speckled shadows over it, and hills fencing it in from the rough

weather. At no great distance, they beheld a river gleaming in the

sunshine. A home feeling stole into the heart of poor Cadmus. He was

very glad to know that here he might awake in the morning, without the

necessity of putting on his dusty sandals to travel farther and farther.

The days and the years would pass over him, and find him still in this

pleasant spot. If he could have had his brothers with him, and his

friend Thasus, and could have seen his dear mother under a roof of his

own, he might here have been happy, after all their disappointments.

Some day or other, too, his sister Europa might have come quietly to the

door of his home, and smiled round upon the familiar faces. But, indeed,

since there was no hope of regaining the friends of his boyhood, or ever

seeing his dear sister again, Cadmus resolved to make himself happy with

these new companions, who had grown so fond of him while following the

cow.

"Yes, my friends," said he to them, "this is to be our home. Here we

will build our habitations. The brindled cow, which has led us hither,

will supply us with milk. We will cultivate the neighbouring soil, and

lead an innocent and happy life."

His companions joyfully assented to this plan; and, in the first place,

being very hungry and thirsty, they looked about them for the means of

providing a comfortable meal. Not far off, they saw a tuft of trees,

which appeared as if there might be a spring of water beneath them. They

went thither to fetch some, leaving Cadmus stretched on the ground

along with the brindled cow; for, now that he had found a place of rest,

it seemed as if all the weariness of his pilgrimage, ever since he left

King Agenor's palace, had fallen upon him at once. But his new friends

had not long been gone, when he was suddenly startled by cries, shouts,

and screams, and the noise of a terrible struggle, and in the midst of

it all, a most awful hissing, which went right through his ears like a

rough saw.

Running toward the tuft of trees, he beheld the head and fiery eyes of

an immense serpent or dragon, with the widest jaws that ever a dragon

had, and a vast many rows of horribly sharp teeth. Before Cadmus could

reach the spot, this pitiless reptile had killed his poor companions,

and was busily devouring them, making but a mouthful of each man.

It appears that the fountain of water was enchanted, and that the dragon

had been set to guard it, so that no mortal might ever quench his thirst

there. As the neighbouring inhabitants carefully avoided the spot, it

was now a long time (not less than a hundred years, or thereabouts)

since the monster had broken his fast; and, as was natural enough, his

appetite had grown to be enormous, and was not half satisfied by the

poor people whom he had just eaten up. When he caught sight of Cadmus,

therefore, he set up another abominable hiss, and flung back his immense

jaws, until his mouth looked like a great red cavern, at the farther end

of which were seen the legs of his last victim, whom he had hardly had

time to swallow.

But Cadmus was so enraged at the destruction of his friends, that he

cared neither for the size of the dragon's jaws nor for his hundreds of

sharp teeth. Drawing his sword, he rushed at the monster, and flung

himself right into his cavernous mouth. This bold method of attacking

him took the dragon by surprise; for, in fact, Cadmus had leaped so far

down into his throat, that the rows of terrible teeth could not close

upon him, nor do him the least harm in the world. Thus, though the

struggle was a tremendous one, and though the dragon shattered the tuft

of trees into small splinters by the lashing of his tail, yet, as Cadmus

was all the while slashing and stabbing at his very vitals, it was not

long before the scaly wretch bethought himself of slipping away. He had

not gone his length, however, when the brave Cadmus gave him a sword

thrust that finished the battle; and, creeping out of the gateway of the

creature's jaws, there he beheld him still wriggling his vast bulk,

although there was no longer life enough in him to harm a little child.

But do not you suppose that it made Cadmus sorrowful to think of the

melancholy fate which had befallen those poor, friendly people, who had

followed the cow along with him? It seemed as if he were doomed to lose

everybody whom he loved, or to see them perish in one way or another.

And here he was, after all his toils and troubles, in a solitary place,

with not a single human being to help him build a hut.

"What shall I do?" cried he aloud. "It were better for me to have been

devoured by the dragon, as my poor companions were."

"Cadmus," said a voice--but whether it came from above or below him, or

whether it spoke within his own breast, the young man could not

tell--"Cadmus, pluck out the dragon's teeth, and plant them in the

earth."

This was a strange thing to do; nor was it very easy, I should imagine,

to dig out all those deep-rooted fangs from the dead dragon's jaws. But

Cadmus toiled and tugged, and after pounding the monstrous head almost

to pieces with a great stone, he at last collected as many teeth as

might have filled a bushel or two. The next thing was to plant them.

This, likewise, was a tedious piece of work, especially as Cadmus was

already exhausted with killing the dragon and knocking his head to

pieces, and had nothing to dig the earth with, that I know of, unless it

were his sword blade. Finally, however, a sufficiently large tract of

ground was turned up, and sown with this new kind of seed; although half

of the dragon's teeth still remained to be planted some other day.

Cadmus, quite out of breath, stood leaning upon his sword, and wondering

what was to happen next. He had waited but a few moments, when he began

to see a sight, which was as great a marvel as the most marvellous thing

I ever told you about.

The sun was shining slantwise over the field, and showed all the moist,

dark soil just like any other newly planted piece of ground. All at

once, Cadmus fancied he saw something glisten very brightly, first at

one spot, then at another, and then at a hundred and a thousand spots

together. Soon he perceived them to be the steel heads of spears,

sprouting up everywhere like so many stalks of grain, and continually

growing taller and taller. Next appeared a vast number of bright sword

blades, thrusting themselves up in the same way. A moment afterward, the

whole surface of the ground was broken up by a multitude of polished

brass helmets, coming up like a crop of enormous beans. So rapidly did

they grow, that Cadmus now discerned the fierce countenance of a man

beneath every one. In short, before he had time to think what a

wonderful affair it was, he beheld an abundant harvest of what looked

like human beings, armed with helmets and breastplates, shields, swords

and spears; and before they were well out of the earth, they brandished

their weapons, and clashed them one against another, seeming to think,

little while as they had yet lived, that they had wasted too much of

life without a battle. Every tooth of the dragon had produced one of

these sons of deadly mischief.

Up sprouted, also, a great many trumpeters; and with the first breath

that they drew, they put their brazen trumpets to their lips, and

sounded a tremendous and ear-shattering blast; so that the whole space,

just now so quiet and solitary, reverberated with the clash and clang of

arms, the bray of warlike music, and the shouts of angry men. So enraged

did they all look, that Cadmus fully expected them to put the whole

world to the sword. How fortunate would it be for a great conqueror, if

he could get a bushel of the dragon's teeth to sow!

"Cadmus," said the same voice which he had before heard, "throw a stone

into the midst of the armed men."

So Cadmus seized a large stone, and, flinging it into the middle of the

earth army, saw it strike the breast-plate of a gigantic and

fierce-looking warrior. Immediately on feeling the blow, he seemed to

take it for granted that somebody had struck him; and, uplifting his

weapon, he smote his next neighbour a blow that cleft his helmet

asunder, and stretched him on the ground. In an instant, those nearest

the fallen warrior began to strike at one another with their swords and

stab with their spears. The confusion spread wider and wider. Each man

smote down his brother, and was himself smitten down before he had time

to exult in his victory. The trumpeters, all the while, blew their

blasts shriller and shriller; each soldier shouted a battle cry and

often fell with it on his lips. It was the strangest spectacle of

causeless wrath, and of mischief for no good end, that had ever been

witnessed; but, after all, it was neither more foolish nor more wicked

than a thousand battles that have since been fought, in which men have

slain their brothers with just as little reason as these children of the

dragon's teeth. It ought to be considered, too, that the dragon people

were made for nothing else; whereas other mortals were born to love and

help one another.

Well, this memorable battle continued to rage until the ground was

strewn with helmeted heads that had been cut off. Of all the thousands

that began the fight, there were only five left standing. These now

rushed from different parts of the field, and, meeting in the middle of

it, clashed their swords, and struck at each other's hearts as fiercely

as ever.

"Cadmus," said the voice again, "bid those five warriors to sheathe

their swords. They will help you to build the city."

Without hesitating an instant, Cadmus stepped forward, with the aspect

of a king and a leader, and extending his drawn sword amongst them,

spoke to the warriors in a stern and commanding voice.

"Sheathe your weapons!" said he.

And forthwith, feeling themselves bound to obey him, the five remaining

sons of the dragon's teeth made him a military salute with their swords,

returned them to the scabbards, and stood before Cadmus in a rank,

eyeing him as soldiers eye their captain, while awaiting the word of

command.

These five men had probably sprung from the biggest of the dragon's

teeth, and were the boldest and strongest of the whole army. They were

almost giants, indeed, and had good need to be so, else they never could

have lived through so terrible a fight. They still had a very furious

look, and, if Cadmus happened to glance aside, would glare at one

another, with fire flashing out of their eyes. It was strange, too, to

observe how the earth, out of which they had so lately grown, was

incrusted, here and there, on their bright breastplates, and even

begrimed their faces, just as you may have seen it clinging to beets and

carrots when pulled out of their native soil. Cadmus hardly knew whether

to consider them as men, or some odd kind of vegetable; although, on the

whole, he concluded that there was human nature in them, because they

were so fond of trumpets and weapons, and so ready to shed blood.

They looked him earnestly in the face, waiting for his next order, and

evidently desiring no other employment than to follow him from one

battlefield to another, all over the wide world. But Cadmus was wiser

than these earth-born creatures, with the dragon's fierceness in them,

and knew better how to use their strength and hardihood.

"Come!" said he. "You are sturdy fellows. Make yourselves useful! Quarry

some stones with those great swords of yours, and help me to build a

city."

The five soldiers grumbled a little, and muttered that it was their

business to overthrow cities, not to build them up. But Cadmus looked at

them with a stern eye, and spoke to them in, a tone of authority, so

that they knew him for their master, and never again thought of

disobeying his commands. They set to work in good earnest, and toiled so

diligently, that, in a very short time, a city began to make its

appearance. At first, to be sure, the workmen showed a quarrelsome

disposition. Like savage beasts, they would doubtless have done one

another a mischief, if Cadmus had not kept watch over them and quelled

the fierce old serpent that lurked in their hearts, when he saw it

gleaming out of their wild eyes. But, in course of time, they got

accustomed to honest labour, and had sense enough to feel that there was

more true enjoyment in living at peace, and doing good to one's

neighbour, than in striking at him with a two-edged sword. It may not be

too much to hope that the rest of mankind will by and by grow as wise

and peaceable as these five earth-begrimed warriors, who sprang from the

dragon's teeth.

And now the city was built, and there was a home in it for each of the

workmen. But the palace of Cadmus was not yet erected, because they had

left it till the last, meaning to introduce all the new improvements of

architecture, and make it very commodious, as well as stately and

beautiful. After finishing the rest of their labours, they all went to

bed betimes, in order to rise in the gray of the morning, and get at

least the foundation of the edifice laid before nightfall. But, when

Cadmus arose, and took his way toward the site where the palace was to

be built, followed by his five sturdy workmen marching all in a row,

what do you think he saw?

What should it be but the most magnificent palace that had ever been

seen in the world? It was built of marble and other beautiful kinds of

stone, and rose high into the air, with a splendid dome and a portico

along the front, and carved pillars, and everything else that befitted

the habitation of a mighty king. It had grown up out of the earth in

almost as short a time as it had taken the armed host to spring from the

dragon's teeth; and what made the matter more strange, no seed of this

stately edifice had ever been planted.

When the five workmen beheld the dome, with the morning sunshine making

it look golden and glorious, they gave a great shout.

"Long live King Cadmus," they cried, "in his beautiful palace."

And the new king, with his five faithful followers at his heels,

shouldering their pickaxes and marching in a rank (for they still had a

soldier-like sort of behaviour, as their nature was), ascended the

palace steps. Halting at the entrance, they gazed through a long vista

of lofty pillars that were ranged from end to end of a great hall. At

the farther extremity of this hall, approaching slowly toward him,

Cadmus beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful, and adorned with a

royal robe, and a crown of diamonds over her golden ringlets, and the

richest necklace that ever a queen wore. His heart thrilled with

delight. He fancied it his long-lost sister Europa, now grown to

womanhood, coming to make him happy, and to repay him, with her sweet

sisterly affection, for all those weary wanderings in quest of her since

he left King Agenor's palace--for the tears that he had shed, on parting

with Phœnix, and Cilix, and Thasus--for the heart-breakings that had

made the whole world seem dismal to him over his dear mother's grave.

But, as Cadmus advanced to meet the beautiful stranger, he saw that her

features were unknown to him, although, in the little time that it

required to tread along the hall, he had already felt a sympathy betwixt

himself and her.

"No, Cadmus," said the same voice that had spoken to him in the field of

the armed men, "this is not that dear sister Europa whom you have sought

so faithfully all over the wide world. This is Harmonia, a daughter of

the sky, who is given you instead of sister, and brothers, and friend,

and mother. You will find all those dear ones in her alone."

So King Cadmus dwelt in the palace, with his new friend Harmonia, and

found a great deal of comfort in his magnificent abode, but would

doubtless have found as much, if not more, in the humblest cottage by

the wayside. Before many years went by, there was a group of rosy little

children (but how they came thither has always been a mystery to me)

sporting in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and

running joyfully to meet King Cadmus when affairs of state left him at

leisure to play with them. They called him father, and Queen Harmonia

mother. The five old soldiers of the dragon's teeth grew very fond of

these small urchins, and were never weary of showing them how to

shoulder sticks, flourish wooden swords, and march in military order,

blowing a penny trumpet, or beating an abominable rub-a-dub upon a

little drum.

But King Cadmus, lest there should be too much of the dragon's tooth in

his children's disposition, used to find time from his kingly duties to

teach them their A B C--which he invented for their benefit, and for

which many little people, I am afraid, are not half so grateful to him

as they ought to be.

CHAPTER VII

THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat

at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had

already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet

hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden,

and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over

the cottage wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple.

But the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the

village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was

hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveller is seeking

hospitality among our neighbours yonder, and, instead of giving him food

and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"

"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbours felt a

little more kindness for their fellow creatures. And only think of

bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the

head when they fling stones at strangers!"

"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his

white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some

terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless

they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence

affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor,

homeless stranger that may come along and need it."

"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!"

These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty

hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while

Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and

cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the

cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables,

with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a

bunch of grapes that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they were

two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have

gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their

brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary

traveller who might pause before their door. They felt as if such guests

had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them

better and more bountifully than their own selves.

Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a

village, which lay in a hollow valley that was about half a mile in

breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably

been the bed of a lake. There, fishes had glided to and fro in the

depths, and water weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills

had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But,

as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on

it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient

lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of

the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had

been dry land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high,

and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and

stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful

valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made the

inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to

Providence by doing good to their fellow creatures.

But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not

worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently.

They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for

the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed,

had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one

another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and

care which all of us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I

am going to tell you. These naughty people taught their children to be

no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of

encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some

poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They

kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveller ventured to show

himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered

to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would

seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he

were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he

had time to run away. This was a very terrible thing to poor travellers,

as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble,

or lame, or old. Such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind

people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of

behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to

pass through the village again.

What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons

came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their

servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil

and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off

their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children

were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for

the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master

instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This

would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared

much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing

whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the

prince.

So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he

heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the

farther extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which

lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the

valley.

"I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man.

"Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife.

They sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came

nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which

their cottage stood, they saw two travellers approaching on foot. Close

behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little

farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and

flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice,

the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure)

turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in

his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly

along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children, or the

pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.

Both of the travellers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they

might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's

lodging. And this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had

allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely.

"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor

people. No doubt, they feel almost too heavy hearted to climb the hill."

"Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within

doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A

comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders toward raising their

spirits."

Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went

forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there

was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest

tone imaginable:

"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"

"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way,

notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another

greeting than we have met with yonder in the village. Pray, why do you

live in such a bad neighbourhood?"

"Ah!" observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smite, "Providence

put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you

what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbours."

"Well said, old father!" cried the traveller, laughing; "and, if the

truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those

children (the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud

balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough

already. But I took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you

may have heard him yelp, even thus far off."

Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would

you have fancied, by the traveller's look and manner, that he was weary

with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment

at the end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of

cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it

was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about

him, perhaps because his undergarments were shabby. Philemon perceived,

too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing

dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not

precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly,

seemed queer. The traveller was so wonderfully light and active that it

appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own

accord, or could only be kept down by an effort.

"I used to be light footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the

traveller. "But I always found my feet grow heavier toward nightfall."

"There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the

stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see."

This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever

beheld. It was made of olive wood, and had something like a little pair

of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented

as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skilfully

executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather

dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and

twisting.

"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It

would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride

of!"

By this time, Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.

"Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this

bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper.

We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the

cupboard."

The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his

staff fall as he did so. And here happened something rather marvellous,

though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground

of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half

hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.

There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle.

But, in my private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him

tricks again.

Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention

from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.

"Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice,

"a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands

yonder village?"

"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as

you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now,

and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of

the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise,

so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old

Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"

"That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and

there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head,

too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement.

"Since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections

and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be

rippling over their dwellings again!"

The traveller looked so stern that Philemon was really almost

frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed

suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a

roll as of thunder in the air.

But, in a moment afterward, the stranger's face became so kindly and

mild, that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could

not help feeling that this elder traveller must be no ordinary

personage, although he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be

journeying on foot. Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise,

or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who

went about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly

objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea

appeared the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to

the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look,

than he could have studied out in a lifetime.

While Baucis was getting the supper, the travellers both began to talk

very sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely

loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old

man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest

fellow whom he had seen for many a day.

"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what

may I call your name?"

"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveller. "So, if you

call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."

"Quicksilver? Quicksilver?" repeated Philemon, looking in the

traveller's face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd

name! And your companion there? Has he as strange a one?"

"You must ask the thunder to tell it you!" replied Quicksilver, putting

on a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough."

This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused

Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on

venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his

visage. But, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so

humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with

gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to

tell him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the

feeling that people have, when they meet with anyone wise enough to

comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.

But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many

secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the

events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been

a score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had

dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by

honest labour, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent

butter and cheese Baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he

raised in his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another

so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate

them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together.

As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made

its expression as sweet as it was grand.

"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old

wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted."

And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a

bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.

Baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make

apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her

guests.

"Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would

have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.

But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last

loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being

poor, save when a poor traveller knocks at our door."

"All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied

the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest, hearty welcome to a guest works

miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to

nectar and ambrosia."

"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey

that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."

"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing,

"an absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely I will play my part at

it! I think I never felt hungrier in my life."

"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has

such a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough

supper!"

They all went into the cottage.

And, now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make

you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest

circumstances in the who|e story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect,

had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. Well; when its master

entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do

but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering

up the door-steps! Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor

did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity

and decorum, beside Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well

as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no

notice was given to what the staff had been about.

As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry

travellers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf,

with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the

other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. A

moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner

of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before

the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher.

Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself

pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept

wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible,

by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.

And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help

wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their

very first sitting down, the travellers both drank off all the milk in

their two bowls, at a draught.

"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said

Quicksilver. "The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst."

"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so

sorry and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in

the pitcher. O husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?"

"Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from the table

and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that

matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly

more milk in the pitcher."

So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill,

not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher,

that was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely

believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and

had peeped in afterward, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set

it down upon the table.

"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful I

suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot

help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."

"What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents

of the second bowl, "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask

you for a little more."

Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that

Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had

poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course,

there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know

precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture

as if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest

idea that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore,

when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was

immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two

snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis

nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their

heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.

And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if

Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage

that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of

you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at

supper time!

"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver,

"and a little of that honey!"

Baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and

her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be

palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of

the oven. Tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it

more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that

it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could

it possibly be?

But, oh the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to

describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its colour was that of the

purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odour of a thousand

flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to

seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder

is, that, after alighting on a flower bed of so delicious fragrance and

immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their

hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt.

The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that,

had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low

ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbour, with

celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.

Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but

think that there was something rather out of the common way, in all that

had been going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and

laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by

Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper.

"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.

"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "And I rather think,

my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I

had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at

once. There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you

thought--that is all."

"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon

people."

"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They

certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily

glad to see them making so comfortable a supper."

Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.

Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of

opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each

separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It

was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been

produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage

wall.

"Very admirable grapes these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one

after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my

good host, whence did you gather them?"

"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches

twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the

grapes very fine ones."

"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious

milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a prince."

This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for

he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels

which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was

incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she

supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case, that he

wanted to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher,

therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it

contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld

a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher,

and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant

milk. It was lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the

miraculous pitcher from his hand.

"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers!" cried he, even more bewildered

than his wife had been.

"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder

traveller, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and

awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your

pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for

the needy wayfarer!"

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their

place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a

little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their

delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and

more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveller had inspired them

with such reverence, that they dared not ask him any questions. And

when Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a

fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter

personage pointed to his staff.

"There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if

you can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to

make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this;

sometimes getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. If

I had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!"

He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather

fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his

heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old

couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the

evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had

given up their sleeping room to the guests, and had no other bed for

themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their

own hearts.

The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the

strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to

depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer,

until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and,

perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs for breakfast. The guests, however,

seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey

before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in

setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth

with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to

take.

So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old

friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple

insensibly grew with the elder traveller, and how their good and simple

spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the

illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick,

laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but

peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They

sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so

quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked

so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it.

But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good humoured that

they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff,

snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long.

"Ah me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little

way from their door. "If our neighbours only knew what a blessed thing

it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their

dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone."

"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so--that it is!" cried good

old Baucis, vehemently. "And I mean to go this very day, and tell some

of them what naughty people they are!"

"I fear," remarked Quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none

of them at home."

The elder traveller's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and

awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon

dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they

had been gazing at the sky.

"When men do not feel toward the humblest stranger as if he were a

brother," said the traveller, in tones so deep that they sounded like

those of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was

created as the abode of a great human brotherhood!"

"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the

liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same

village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I

do not see it hereabouts."

Philemon and his wife turned toward the valley, where, at sunset, only

the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the

clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing

in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But

what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a

village! Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had

ceased to have existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue

surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim

to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as

tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the

world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then a little

breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in

the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur,

against the hither shore.

The lake seemed so strangely familiar that the old couple were greatly

perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a

village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the

vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far

too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday, and

now was gone!

"Alas!" cried the kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor

neighbours?"

"They exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveller, in

his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a

distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs;

for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the

exercise of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no

image of the better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was

of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"

"And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his

mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but

little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the

coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever

you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can

throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbours!"

"Ah," cried Baucis, shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of

them on the gridiron!"

"No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"

"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveller--"and you,

kind Baucis--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt

hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the

milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and

the honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your

board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You

have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favour

you have most at heart, and it is granted."

Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then--I know not which of

the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their

hearts.

"Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same

instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!"

"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness, "Now, look

toward your cottage!"

They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of

white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their

humble residence had so lately stood!

"There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them

both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the

poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."

The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he

nor Quicksilver was there.

So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and

spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making

everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The milk

pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvellous quality of

being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an

honest, good-humoured, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this

pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid

that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable

curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage

into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!

Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew

older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a

summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance,

as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their

pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over night to breakfast. The

guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace,

and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they

espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could

remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with

their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage

overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the

other a linden tree. Their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to

see--were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each

tree seemed to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own.

While the guests were marvelling how these trees, that must have

required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and

venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their

intermingled boughs astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in

the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking.

"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.

"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden tree.

But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at

once--"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"--as if one were both and

both were one, and talked together in the depths of their mutual heart.

It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed

their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or

so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden tree. And oh, what a

hospitable shade did they fling around them. Whenever a wayfarer paused

beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head,

and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:

"Welcome, welcome, dear traveller, welcome!"

And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old

Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where,

for a great while afterward the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty

used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the

miraculous pitcher.

And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!

CHAPTER VIII

THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN

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

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

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

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

playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.

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

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

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

"Epimetheus, what have you in that box?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

ugly box were out of the way!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

discover the secret of the mysterious box.

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

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

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

children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

time with our playmates."

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

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

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

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

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

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

inside?"

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

then we could see for ourselves."

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

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

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

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

she could not help thinking and talking about the box.

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

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

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

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

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

that it looked almost as if it had wings."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

something very nice for us both to eat!"

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

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

lid of the box."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

their shins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

account.

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

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

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

flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

her catching a sideway glimpse at it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

utter itself in words.

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

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

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

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

something very pretty!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to

do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly

thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before

any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too

much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among

the flower shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes,

or at whatever other games had been found out, while Mother Earth was in

her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the real play. There was

absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and dusting about the

cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only

too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases--and poor little

Pandora's day's work was over. And then, for the rest of the day, there

was the box!

After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in

its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and

to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was in good

humour, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich

border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. Or, if she

chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with

her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the box--(but it was a

mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick

did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our

active-minded little Pandora would not have known half so well how to

spend her time as she now did.

For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What

could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits

would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might

have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your

Christmas or New Year's gifts. Do you think that you should be less

curious than Pandora? If you were left alone with the box, might you not

feel a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do it. Oh, fie!

No, no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very

hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! I know not

whether Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made,

probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything

for the children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora was convinced that

there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and

therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these little

girls, here around me, would have felt. And, possibly, a little more so;

but of that I am not quite so certain.

On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking

about her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at

last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to open

it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora!

First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite too heavy for

the slender strength of a child like Pandora. She raised one end of the

box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty

loud thump. A moment afterward, she almost fancied that she heard

something stir inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as

possible, and listened. Positively, there did seem to be a kind of

stifled murmur within! Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears?

Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite

satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all

events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.

As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.

"It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said

Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it nevertheless. I am

resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."

So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its

intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or

quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in

attempting to undo it. Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the

open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing

at a distance, and perhaps the voice of Epimetheus among them. Pandora

stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser if

she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the

box, but run and join her little playfellow and be happy?

All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with

the knot; and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid

of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.

"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether

it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the

world to run away!"

But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of

twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself,

as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.

"This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will

Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"

She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it

quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she

could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into

one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of

the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was

to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was until

Epimetheus should come in.

"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I

have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into

the box?"

And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she

would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well

do so at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should

have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what

was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said

or believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid

of the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she

had not seemed to hear, more distinctly, than before, the murmur of

small voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but

there was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear--or else it was

her curiosity that whispered:

"Let us out, dear Pandora--pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty

playfellows for you! Only let us out!"

"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?

Well--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and then

the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly be

any harm in just one little peep!"

But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.

This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell

with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did

not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on

other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus

had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at

all, they were overripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. There was no

mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own

accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so

uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what

was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed

him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that, at the time

we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be

happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul

or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the

beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts.

At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the

play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a

humour better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her

pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which

he meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely--roses, and

lilies, and orange blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail

of fragrance behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath

was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a

boy. The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the

fittest to twine flower wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days,

rather better than they can now.

And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in

the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.

But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to

intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.

He entered softly, for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,

and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be

aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his

treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he

pleased--as heavily as a grown man--as heavily, I was going to say, as

an elephant--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his

footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his

entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid,

and was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld

her. If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her

hand, and the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.

But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his

own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora

was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow

should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were

anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to

himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining

her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly

as much in fault as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what

happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise.

As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for

the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have

buried it alive. There had for a little while past been a low growling

and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But

Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and

looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures

brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same

instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as

if he were in pain.

"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora! why have you

opened this wicked box?"

Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see

what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder cloud had so darkened the room

that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a

disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic

mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor bugs, and pinching dogs,

were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the

imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats'

wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings

in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was

it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain

and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub

about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and

would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run

and brushed it away.

Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made

their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole

family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great

many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows;

there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes;

there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk

about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and

bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to

Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy

children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been

faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would

ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear,

from that hour until this moment.

But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a

calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that

miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing

her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem

very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you

will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarms in

their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they did

was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of

them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and so

pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of

them so much as smiled for many days afterward. And, what was very

singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth not one of which

had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a

day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their

childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and

maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they

dreamed of such a thing.

Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,

remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and

were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them,

because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the

world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could

have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly

bad humour, both with themselves and with one another. In order to

indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with

his back toward Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and

rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying

bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.

Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.

"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head.

But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of

humour to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.

"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!"

Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand,

knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.

"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.

"Who are you, inside of this naughty box?"

A sweet little voice spoke from within--

"Only lift the lid, and you shall see."

"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob, "I have had enough

of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and

there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters

already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so

foolish as to let you out!"

She looked toward Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he

would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that

she was wise a little too late.

"Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me

out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their

tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at

once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty

Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"

And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that

made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice

asked. Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter, at every word that

came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner,

had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than

before.

"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?"

"Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good humour as

yet. "And what of it?"

"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.

"Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief

already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other

Trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can

make no very great difference."

"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her

eyes.

"Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and

laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora,

lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have

some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so

dismal as you think them!"

"Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open

the box!"

"And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the

room, "I will help you!"

So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a

sunny and smiling little personage, and Hovered about the room, throwing

a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into

dark corners, by reflecting it from a bit of looking glass? Well, so

looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger, amid the

gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch

of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and

immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the

forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.

After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered

sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them,

that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened

the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a

prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.

"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora.

"I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I

am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box, to make amends

to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which was destined to

be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well in spite

of them all."

"Your wings are coloured like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very

beautiful!"

"Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature

is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles."

"And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?"

"As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile--"and that

will be as long as you live in the world--I promise never to desert you.

There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think

that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when

perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on

the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know something

very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!"

"Oh tell us," they exclaimed--"tell us what it is!"

"Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.

"But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on

this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true."

"We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.

And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,

that has since been alive. And to tell you the truth, I cannot help

being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for

her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped

into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about

the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and

are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their

tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more, as I grow

older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope! What in

the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualises the earth; Hope

makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect,

Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter!

CHAPTER IX

THE CYCLOPS

When the great city of Troy was taken, all the chiefs who had fought

against it set sail for their homes. But there was wrath in heaven

against them, for indeed they had borne themselves haughtily and cruelly

in the day of their victory. Therefore they did not all find a safe and

happy return. For one was shipwrecked, and another was shamefully slain

by his false wife in his palace, and others found all things at home

troubled and changed, and were driven to seek new dwellings elsewhere.

And some, whose wives and friends and people had been still true to them

through those ten long years of absence, were driven far and wide about

the world before they saw their native land again. And of all, the wise

Ulysses was he who wandered farthest and suffered most.

He was well-nigh the last to sail, for he had tarried many days to do

pleasure to Agamemnon, lord of all the Greeks. Twelve ships he had with

him--twelve he had brought to Troy--and in each there were some fifty

men, being scarce half of those that had sailed in them in the old days,

so many valiant heroes slept the last sleep by Simoïs and Scamander, and

in the plain and on the seashore, slain in battle or by the shafts of

Apollo.

First they sailed northwest to the Thracian coast, where the Ciconians

dwelt, who had helped the men of Troy. Their city they took, and in it

much plunder, slaves and oxen, and jars of fragrant wine, and might

have escaped unhurt, but that they stayed to hold revel on the shore.

For the Ciconians gathered their neighbours, being men of the same

blood, and did battle with the invaders, and drove them to their ship.

And when Ulysses numbered his men, he found that he had lost six out of

each ship.

Scarce had he set out again when the wind began to blow fiercely; so,

seeing a smooth sandy beach, they drave the ships ashore and dragged

them out of reach of the waves, and waited till the storm should abate.

And the third morning being fair, they sailed again, and journeyed

prosperously till they came to the very end of the great Peloponnesian

land, where Cape Malea looks out upon the southern sea. But contrary

currents baffled them, so that they could not round it, and the north

wind blew so strongly that they must fain drive before it. And on the

tenth day they came to the land where the lotus grows--a wondrous fruit,

of which whosoever eats cares not to see country or wife or children

again. Now the Lotus eaters, for so they call the people of the land,

were a kindly folk, and gave of the fruit to some of the sailors, not

meaning them any harm, but thinking it to be the best that they had to

give. These, when they had eaten, said that they would not sail any more

over the sea; which, when the wise Ulysses heard, he bade their comrades

bind them and carry them, sadly complaining, to the ships.

Then, the wind having abated, they took to their oars, and rowed for

many days till they came to the country where the Cyclopes dwell. Now, a

mile or so from the shore there was an island, very fair and fertile,

but no man dwells there or tills the soil, and in the island a harbour

where a ship may be safe from all winds, and at the head of the harbour

a stream falling from the rock, and whispering alders all about it. Into

this the ships passed safely, and were hauled up on the beach, and the

crews slept by them, waiting for the morning. And the next day they

hunted the wild goats, of which there was great store on the island, and

feasted right merrily on what they caught, with draughts of red wine

which they had carried off from the town of the Ciconians.

But on the morrow, Ulysses, for he was ever fond of adventure, and would

know of every land to which he came what manner of men they were that

dwelt there, took one of his twelve ships and bade row to the land.

There was a great hill sloping to the shore, and there rose up here and

there a smoke from the caves where the Cyclopes dwelt apart, holding no

converse with each other, for they were a rude and savage folk, but

ruled each his own household, not caring for others. Now very close to

the shore was one of these caves, very huge and deep, with laurels round

about the mouth, and in front a fold with walls built of rough stone,

and shaded by tall oaks and pines. So Ulysses chose out of the crew the

twelve bravest, and bade the rest guard the ship, and went to see what

manner of dwelling this was, and who abode there. He had his sword by

his side, and on his shoulder a mighty skin of wine, sweet smelling and

strong, with which he might win the heart of some fierce savage, should

he chance to meet with such, as indeed his prudent heart forecasted that

he might.

So they entered the cave, and judged that it was the dwelling of some

rich and skilful shepherd. For within there were pens for the young of

the sheep and of the goats, divided all according to their age, and

there were baskets full of cheeses, and full milkpails ranged along the

wall. But the Cyclops himself was away in the pastures. Then the

companions of Ulysses besought him that he would depart, taking with

him, if he would, a store of cheeses and sundry of the lambs and of the

kids. But he would not, for he wished to see, after his wont, what

manner of host this strange shepherd might be. And truly he saw it to

his cost!

It was evening when the Cyclops came home, a mighty giant, twenty feet

in height, or more. On his shoulder he bore a vast bundle of pine logs

for his fire, and threw them down outside the cave with a great crash,

and drove the flocks within, and closed the entrance with a huge rock,

which twenty wagons and more could not bear. Then he milked the ewes and

all the she goats, and half of the milk he curdled for cheese, and half

he set ready for himself, when he should sup. Next he kindled a fire

with the pine logs, and the flame lighted up all the cave, showing him

Ulysses and his comrades.

"Who are ye?" cried Polyphemus, for that was the giant's name. "Are ye

traders, or, haply, pirates?"

For in those days it was not counted shame to be called a pirate.

Ulysses shuddered at the dreadful voice and shape, but bore him bravely,

and answered, "We are no pirates, mighty sir, but Greeks, sailing back

from Troy, and subjects of the great King Agamemnon, whose fame is

spread from one end of heaven to the other. And we are come to beg

hospitality of thee in the name of Zeus, who rewards or punishes hosts

and guests according as they be faithful the one to the other, or no."

"Nay," said the giant, "it is but idle talk to tell me of Zeus and the

other gods. We Cyclopes take no account of gods, holding ourselves to

be much better and stronger than they. But come, tell me where have you

left your ship?"

But Ulysses saw his thought when he asked about the ship, how he was

minded to break it, and take from them all hope of flight. Therefore he

answered him craftily:

"Ship have we none, for that which was ours King Poseidon brake, driving

it on a jutting rock on this coast, and we whom thou seest are all that

are escaped from the waves."

Polyphemus answered nothing, but without more ado caught up two of the

men, as a man might catch up the whelps of a dog, and dashed them on the

ground, and tore them limb from limb, and devoured them, with huge

draughts of milk between, leaving not a morsel, not even the very bones.

But the others, when they saw the dreadful deed, could only weep and

pray to Zeus for help. And when the giant had ended his foul meal, he

lay down among his sheep and slept.

Then Ulysses questioned much in his heart whether he should slay the

monster as he slept, for he doubted not that his good sword would pierce

to the giant's heart, mighty as he was. But, being very wise, he

remembered that, should he slay him, he and his comrades would yet

perish miserably. For who should move away the great rock that lay

against the door of the cave? So they waited till the morning. And the

monster woke, and milked his flocks, and afterward, seizing two men,

devoured them for his meal. Then he went to the pastures, but put the

great rock on the mouth of the cave, just as a man puts down the lid

upon his quiver.

All that day the wise Ulysses was thinking what he might best do to save

himself and his companions, and the end of his thinking was this: There

was a mighty pole in the cave, green wood of an olive tree, big as a

ship's mast, which Polyphemus purposed to use, when the smoke should

have dried it, as a walking staff. Of this he cut off a fathom's length,

and his comrades sharpened it and hardened it in the fire, and then hid

it away. At evening the giant came back, and drove his sheep into the

cave, nor left the rams outside, as he had been wont to do before, but

shut them in. And having duly done his shepherd's work, he made his

cruel feast as before. Then Ulysses came forward with the wine skin in

his hand, and said:

"Drink, Cyclops, now that thou hast feasted. Drink, and see what

precious things we had in our ship. But no one hereafter will come to

thee with such like, if thou dealest with strangers as cruelly as thou

hast dealt with us."

Then the Cyclops drank, and was mightily pleased, and said, "Give me

again to drink, and tell me thy name, stranger, and I will give thee a

gift such as a host should give. In good truth this is a rare liquor.

We, too, have vines, but they bear not wine like this, which indeed must

be such as the gods drink in heaven."

Then Ulysses gave him the cup again, and he drank. Thrice he gave it to

him, and thrice he drank, not knowing what it was, and how it would work

within his brain.

Then Ulysses spake to him. "Thou didst ask my name, Cyclops. Lo! my name

is No Man. And now that thou knowest my name, thou shouldst give me thy

gift."

And he said, "My gift shall be that I will eat thee last of all thy

company."

And as he spake he fell back in a drunken sleep. Then Ulysses bade his

comrades be of good courage, for the time was come when they should be

delivered. And they thrust the stake of olive wood into the fire till it

was ready, green as it was, to burst into flame, and they thrust it into

the monster's eye; for he had but one eye, and that in the midst of his

forehead, with the eyebrow below it. And Ulysses leant with all his

force upon the stake, and thrust it in with might and main. And the

burning wood hissed in the eye, just as the red-hot iron hisses in the

water when a man seeks to temper steel for a sword.

Then the giant leapt up, and tore away the stake, and cried aloud, so

that all the Cyclopes who dwelt on the mountain side heard him and came

about his cave, asking him, "What aileth thee, Polyphemus, that thou

makest this uproar in the peaceful night, driving away sleep? Is any one

robbing thee of thy sheep, or seeking to slay thee by craft or force?"

And the giant answered, "No Man slays me by craft."

"Nay, but," they said, "if no man does thee wrong, we cannot help thee.

The sickness which great Zeus may send, who can avoid? Pray to our

father, Poseidon, for help."

Then they departed; and Ulysses was glad at heart for the good success

of his device, when he said that he was No Man.

But the Cyclops rolled away the great stone from the door of the cave,

and sat in the midst stretching out his hands, to feel whether perchance

the men within the cave would seek to go out among the sheep.

Long did Ulysses think how he and his comrades should best escape. At

last he lighted upon a good device, and much he thanked Zeus for that

this once the giant had driven the rams with the other sheep into the

cave. For, these being great and strong, he fastened his comrades under

the bellies of the beasts, tying them with osier twigs, of which the

giant made his bed. One ram he took, and fastened a man beneath it, and

two others he set, one on either side. So he did with the six, for but

six were left out of the twelve who had ventured with him from the ship.

And there was one mighty ram, far larger than all the others, and to

this Ulysses clung, grasping the fleece tight with both his hands. So

they waited for the morning. And when the morning came, the rams rushed

forth to the pasture; but the giant sat in the door and felt the back of

each as it went by, nor thought to try what might be underneath. Last of

all went the great ram. And the Cyclops knew him as he passed and said:

"How is this, thou, who art the leader of the flock? Thou art not wont

thus to lag behind. Thou hast always been the first to run to the

pastures and streams in the morning, and the first to come back to the

fold when evening fell; and now thou art last of all. Perhaps thou art

troubled about thy master's eye, which some wretch--No Man, they call

him--has destroyed, having first mastered me with wine. He has not

escaped, I ween. I would that thou couldst speak, and tell me where he

is lurking. Of a truth I would dash out his brains upon the ground, and

avenge me of this No Man."

So speaking, he let him pass out of the cave. But when they were out of

reach of the giant, Ulysses loosed his hold of the ram, and then unbound

his comrades. And they hastened to their ship, not forgetting to drive

before them a good store of the Cyclops' fat sheep. Right glad were

those that had abode by the ship to see them. Nor did they lament for

those that had died, though they were fain to do so, for Ulysses

forbade, fearing lest the noise of their weeping should betray them to

the giant, where they were. Then they all climbed into the ship, and

sitting well in order on the benches, smote the sea with their oars,

laying-to right lustily, that they might the sooner get away from the

accursed land. And when they had rowed a hundred yards or so, so that a

man's voice could yet be heard by one who stood upon the shore, Ulysses

stood up in the ship and shouted:

"He was no coward, O Cyclops, whose comrades thou didst so foully slay

in thy den. Justly art thou punished, monster, that devourest thy guests

in thy dwelling. May the gods make thee suffer yet worse things than

these!"

Then the Cylops, in his wrath, broke off the top of a great hill, a

mighty rock, and hurled it where he had heard the voice. Right in front

of the ship's bow it fell, and a great wave rose as it sank, and washed

the ship back to the shore. But Ulysses seized a long pole with both

hands and pushed the ship from the land, and bade his comrades ply their

oars, nodding with his head, for he was too wise to speak, lest the

Cyclops should know where they were. Then they rowed with all their

might and main.

And when they had gotten twice as far as before, Ulysses made as if he

would speak again; but his comrades sought to hinder him, saying, "Nay,

my lord, anger not the giant any more. Surely we thought before we were

lost, when he threw the great rock, and washed our ship back to the

shore. And if he hear thee now, he may crush our ship and us, for the

man throws a mighty bolt, and throws it far."

But Ulysses would not be persuaded, but stood up and said, "Hear,

Cyclops! If any man ask who blinded thee, say that it was the warrior

Ulysses, son of Laertes, dwelling in Ithaca."

And the Cyclops answered with a groan, "Of a truth, the old oracles are

fulfilled, for long ago there came to this land one Telemus, a prophet,

and dwelt among us even to old age. This man foretold me that one

Ulysses would rob me of my sight. But I looked for a great man and a

strong, who should subdue me by force, and now a weakling has done the

deed, having cheated me with wine. But come thou hither, Ulysses, and I

will be a host indeed to thee. Or, at least, may Poseidon give thee such

a voyage to thy home as I would wish thee to have. For know that

Poseidon is my sire. May be that he may heal me of my grievous wound."

And Ulysses said, "Would to God, I could send thee down to the abode of

the dead, where thou wouldst be past all healing, even from Poseidon's

self."

Then Cyclops lifted up his hands to Poseidon and prayed:

"Hear me, Poseidon, if I am indeed thy son and thou my father. May this

Ulysses never reach his home! or, if the Fates have ordered that he

should reach it, may he come alone, all his comrades lost, and come to

find sore trouble in his house!"

And as he ended he hurled another mighty rock, which almost lighted on

the rudder's end, yet missed it as if by a hair's breadth. So Ulysses

and his comrades escaped, and came to the island of the wild goats,

where they found their comrades, who indeed had waited long for them, in

sore fear lest they had perished. Then Ulysses divided among his company

all the sheep which they had taken from the Cyclops. And all, with one

consent, gave him for his share the great ram which had carried him out

of the cave, and he sacrificed it to Zeus. And all that day they feasted

right merrily on the flesh of sheep and on sweet wine, and when the

night was come, they lay down upon the shore and slept.

CHAPTER X

THE ARGONAUTS

I

_How the Centaur Trained the Heroes on Pelion_

I have told you of a hero who fought with wild beasts and with wild men;

but now I have a tale of heroes who sailed away into a distant land to

win themselves renown forever, in the adventure of the Golden Fleece.

Whither they sailed, my children, I cannot clearly tell. It all happened

long ago; so long that it has all grown dim, like a dream which you

dreamed last year. And why they went, I cannot tell; some say that it

was to win gold. It may be so; but the noblest deeds which have been

done on earth, have not been done for gold. It was not for the sake of

gold that the Lord came down and died, and the Apostles went out to

preach the good news in all lands. The Spartans looked for no reward in

money when they fought and died at Thermopylæ; and Socrates the wise

asked no pay from his countrymen, but lived poor and barefoot all his

days, only caring to make men good. And there are heroes in our days

also, who do noble deeds, but not for gold. Our discoverers did not go

to make themselves rich, when they sailed out one after another into the

dreary frozen seas; nor did the ladies, who went out last year, to

drudge in the hospitals of the East, making themselves poor, that they

might be rich in noble works. And young men, too, whom you know,

children, and some of them of your own kin, did they say to themselves,

"How much money shall I earn?" when they went out to the war, leaving

wealth, and comfort, and a pleasant home, and all that money can give,

to face hunger and thirst, and wounds and death, that they might fight

for their country and their Queen? No, children, there is a better thing

on earth than wealth, a better thing than life itself; and that is, to

have done something before you die, for which good men may honour you,

and God your Father smile upon your work.

Therefore we will believe--why should we not--of these same Argonauts of

old, that they, too, were noble men, who planned and did a noble deed;

and that therefore their fame has lived, and been told in story and in

song, mixed up, no doubt, with dreams and fables, yet true and right at

heart. So we will honour these old Argonauts, and listen to their story

as it stands; and we will try to be like them, each of us in our place;

for each of us has a Golden Fleece to seek, and a wild sea to sail over,

ere we reach it, and dragons to fight ere it be ours.

And what was that first Golden Fleece? I do not know, nor care. The old

Hellenes said that it hung in Colchis, which we call the Circassian

coast, nailed to a beech tree in the war-god's wood; and that it was the

fleece of the wondrous ram, who bore Phrixus and Helle across the Euxine

Sea. For Phrixus and Helle were the children of the cloud nymph, and of

Athamas the Minuan king. And when a famine came upon the land, their

cruel stepmother, Ino, wished to kill them, that her own children might

reign, and said that they must be sacrificed on an altar, to turn away

the anger of the gods. So the poor children were brought to the altar,

and the priest stood ready with his knife, when out of the clouds came

the Golden Ram, and took them on his back, and vanished. Then madness

came upon that foolish king Athamas, and ruin upon Ino and her children.

For Athamas killed one of them in his fury, and Ino fled from him with

the other in her arms, and leaped from a cliff into the sea, and was

changed into a dolphin, such as you have seen, which wanders over the

waves forever sighing, with its little one clasped to its breast.

But the people drove out King Athamas, because he had killed his child;

and he roamed about in his misery, till he came to the Oracle in Delphi.

And the Oracle told him that he must wander for his sin, till the wild

beasts should feast him as their guest. So he went on in hunger and

sorrow for many a weary day, till he saw a pack of wolves. The wolves

were tearing a sheep; but when they saw Athamas they fled, and left the

sheep for him, and he ate of it; and then he knew that the oracle was

fulfilled at last. So he wandered no more; but settled, and built a

town, and became a king again.

But the ram carried the two children far away over land and sea, till he

came to the Thracian Chersonese, and there Helle fell into the sea. So

those narrow straits are called "Hellespont," after her; and they bear

that name until this day.

Then the ram flew on with Phrixus to the northeast across the sea which

we call the Black Sea now; but the Hellenes called it Euxine. And at

last, they say, he stopped at Colchis, on the steep Circassian coast;

and there Phrixus married Chalchiope, the daughter of Aietes the king;

and offered the ram in sacrifice; and Aietes nailed the ram's fleece to

a beech, in the grove of Ares the war god.

And after awhile Phrixus died, and was buried, but his spirit had no

rest; for he was buried far from his native land, and the pleasant hills

of Hellas. So he came in dreams to the heroes of the Minuai, and called

sadly by their beds: "Come and set my spirit free, that I may go home to

my fathers and to my kinsfolk, and the pleasant Minuan land."

And they asked: "How shall we set your spirit free?"

"You must sail over the sea to Colchis, and bring home the golden

fleece; and then my spirit will come back with it, and I shall sleep

with my fathers and have rest."

He came thus, and called to them often, but when they woke they looked

at each other, and said: "Who dare sail to Colchis, or bring home the

golden fleece?" And in all the country none was brave enough to try it;

for the man and the time were not come.

Phrixus had a cousin called Æson, who was king in Iolcos by the sea.

There he ruled over the rich Minuan heroes, as Athamas his uncle ruled

in Bœotia; and like Athamas, he was an unhappy man. For he had a

stepbrother named Pelias, of whom some said that he was a nymph's son,

and there were dark and sad tales about his birth. When he was a babe he

was cast out on the mountains, and a wild mare came by and kicked him.

But a shepherd passing found the baby, with its face all blackened by

the blow; and took him home, and called him Pelias, because his face was

bruised and black. And he grew up fierce and lawless, and did many a

fearful deed; and at last he drove out Æson his stepbrother, and then

his own brother Neleus, and took the kingdom to himself, and ruled over

the rich Minuan heroes, in Iolcos by the sea.

And Æson, when he was driven out, went sadly away out of the town,

leading his little son by the hand; and he said to himself, "I must hide

the child in the mountains; or Pelias will surely kill him, because he

is the heir."

So he went up from the sea across the valley, through the vineyards and

the olive groves, and across the torrent of Anauros, toward Pelion the

ancient mountain, whose brows are white with snow.

He went up and up into the mountain over marsh, and crag, and down, till

the boy was tired and footsore, and Æson had to bear him in his arms,

till he came to the mouth of a lonely cave, at the foot of a mighty

cliff.

Above the cliff the snow wreaths hung, dripping and cracking in the sun.

But at its foot around the cave's mouth grew all fair flowers and herbs,

as if in a garden, ranged in order, each sort by itself. There they grew

gayly in the sunshine, and the spray of the torrent from above; while

from the cave came the sound of music, and a man's voice singing to the

harp.

Then Æson put down the lad, and whispered:

"Fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall find, lay your hands upon

his knees, and say, 'In the name of Zeus the father of gods and men, I

am your guest from this day forth.'"

Then the lad went in without trembling, for he, too, was a hero's son;

but when he was within, he stopped in wonder, to listen to that magic

song.

And there he saw the singer lying upon bear skins and fragrant boughs;

Cheiron, the ancient centaur, the wisest of all things beneath the sky.

Down to the waist he was a man; but below he was a noble horse; his

white hair rolled down over his broad shoulders, and his white beard

over his broad brown chest; and his eyes were wise and mild, and his

forehead like a mountain wall.

And in his hands he held a harp of gold, and struck it with a golden

key; and as he struck, he sang till his eyes glittered, and filled all

the cave with light.

And he sang of the birth of Time, and of the heavens and the dancing

stars; and of the ocean, and the ether, and the fire, and the shaping of

the wondrous earth. And he sang of the treasures of the hills, and the

hidden jewels of the mine, and the veins of fire and metal, and the

virtues of all healing herbs, and of the speech of birds, and of

prophecy, and of hidden things to come.

Then he sang of health, and strength, and manhood, and a valiant heart;

and of music, and hunting, and wrestling, and all the games which heroes

love; and of travel, and wars, and sieges, and a noble death in fight;

and then he sang of peace and plenty, and of equal justice in the land;

and as he sang, the boy listened wide eyed, and forgot his errand in the

song.

And at the last old Cheiron was silent, and called the lad with a soft

voice.

And the lad ran trembling to him, and would have laid his hands upon his

knees; but Cheiron smiled, and said, "Call hither your father Æson, for

I know you, and all that has befallen, and saw you both afar in the

valley, even before you left the town."

Then Æson came in sadly, and Cheiron asked him, "Why came you not

yourself to me, Æson the Æolid?"

And Æson said:

"I thought, Cheiron will pity the lad if he sees him come alone; and I

wished to try whether he was fearless, and dare venture like a hero's

son. But now I entreat you by Father Zeus, let the boy be your guest

till better times, and train him among the sons of the heroes, that he

may avenge his father's house."

Then Cheiron smiled, and drew the lad to him, and laid his hand upon his

golden locks, and said, "Are you afraid of my horse's hoofs, fair boy,

or will you be my pupil from this day?"

"I would gladly have horse's hoofs like you, if I could sing such songs

as yours."

And Cheiron laughed, and said, "Sit here by me till sundown, when your

playfellows will come home, and you shall learn like them to be a king,

worthy to rule over gallant men."

Then he turned to Æson, and said, "Go back in peace, and bend before the

storm like a prudent man. This boy shall not cross the Anauros again,

till he has become a glory to you and to the house of Æolus."

And Æson wept over his son and went away; but the boy did not weep, so

full was his fancy of that strange cave, and the Centaur, and his song,

and the playfellows whom he was to see.

Then Cheiron put the lyre into his hands, and taught him how to play it,

till the sun sank low behind the cliff, and a shout was heard outside.

And then in came the sons of the heroes, Æneas, and Heracles, and

Peleus, and many another mighty name.

And great Cheiron leapt up joyfully, and his hoofs made the cave

resound, as they shouted, "Come out, Father Cheiron; come out and see

our game." And one cried, "I have killed two deer," and another, "I took

a wildcat among the crags"; and Heracles dragged a wild goat after him

by its horns, for he was as huge as a mountain crag; and Cæneus carried

a bear cub under each arm, and laughed when they scratched and bit; for

neither tooth nor steel could wound him.

And Cheiron praised them all, each according to his deserts.

Only one walked apart and silent, Asclepius, the too-wise child, with

his bosom full of herbs and flowers, and round his wrist a spotted

snake; he came with downcast eyes to Cheiron, and whispered how he had

watched the snake cast his old skin, and grow young again before his

eyes, and how he had gone down into a village in the vale, and cured a

dying man with a herb which he had seen a sick goat eat.

And Cheiron smiled, and said: "To each Athené and Apollo give some gift,

and each is worthy in his place; but to this child they have given an

honour beyond all honours, to cure while others kill."

Then the lads brought in wood, and split it, and lighted a blazing fire;

and others skinned the deer and quartered them, and set them to roast

before the fire; and while the venison was cooking they bathed in the

snow torrent, and washed away the dust and sweat.

And then all ate till they could eat no more (for they had tasted

nothing since the dawn), and drank of the clear spring water, for wine

is not fit for growing lads. And when the remnants were put away, they

all lay down upon the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took the

lyre in turn, and sang and played with all his heart.

And after a while they all went out to a plot of grass at the cave's

mouth, and there they boxed, and ran, and wrestled, and laughed till the

stones fell from the cliffs.

Then Cheiron took his lyre, and all the lads joined hands; and as he

played, they danced to his measure, in and out, and round and round.

There they danced hand in hand, till the night fell over land and sea,

while the black glen shone with their broad white limbs, and the gleam

of their golden hair.

And the lad danced with them, delighted, and then slept a wholesome

sleep, upon fragrant leaves of bay, and myrtle, and marjoram, and

flowers of thyme; and rose at the dawn, and bathed in the torrent, and

became a schoolfellow to the heroes' sons, and forgot Iolcos, and his

father, and all his former life. But he grew strong, and brave and

cunning, upon the pleasant downs of Pelion, in the keen hungry mountain

air. And he learnt to wrestle, and to box, and to hunt, and to play upon

the harp; and next he learnt to ride, for old Cheiron used to mount him

on his back; and he learnt the virtues of all herbs, and how to cure all

wounds; and Cheiron called him Jason the healer, and that is his name

until this day.

PART II

_How Jason Lost His Sandal in Anauros_

And ten years came and went, and Jason was grown to be a mighty man.

Some of his fellows were gone, and some were growing up by his side.

Asclepius was gone into Peloponnese, to work his wondrous cures on men;

and some say he used to raise the dead to life. And Heracles was gone to

Thebes, to fulfil those famous labours which have become a proverb among

men. And Peleus had married a sea nymph, and his wedding is famous to

this day. And Æneas was gone home to Troy, and many a noble tale you

will read of him, and of all the other gallant heroes, the scholars of

Cheiron the just. And it happened on a day that Jason stood on the

mountain, and looked north and south and east and west; and Cheiron

stood by him and watched him, for he knew that the time was come.

And Jason looked and saw the plains of Thessaly, where the Lapithai

breed their horses; and the lake of Boibé, and the stream which runs

northward to Peneus and Tempe; and he looked north, and saw the mountain

wall which guards the Magnesian shore; Olympus, the seat of the

Immortals, and Ossa, and Pelion, where he stood. Then he looked east and

saw the bright blue sea, which stretched away forever toward the dawn.

Then he looked south, and saw a pleasant land, with white-walled towns

and farms, nestling along the shore of a land-locked bay, while the

smoke rose blue among the trees; and he knew it for the bay of Pagasai,

and the rich lowlands of Hæmonia, and Iolcos by the sea.

Then he sighed, and asked: "Is it true what the heroes tell me, that I

am heir of that fair land?"

"And what good would it be to you, Jason, if you were heir of that fair

land?"

"I would take it and keep it."

"A strong man has taken it and kept it long. Are you stronger than

Pelias the terrible?"

"I can try my strength with his," said Jason. But Cheiron sighed and

said:

"You have many a danger to go through before you rule in Iolcos by the

sea; many a danger, and many a woe; and strange troubles in strange

lands, such as man never saw before."

"The happier I," said Jason, "to see what man never saw before."

And Cheiron sighed again, and said: "The eaglet must leave the nest when

it is fledged. Will you go to Iolcos by the sea? Then promise me two

things before you go."

Jason promised, and Cheiron answered: "Speak harshly to no soul whom you

may meet, and stand by the word which you shall speak."

Jason wondered why Cheiron asked this of him; but he knew that the

Centaur was a prophet, and saw things long before they came. So he

promised, and leapt down the mountain, to take his fortune like a man.

He went down through the arbutus thickets, and across the downs of

thyme, till he came to the vineyard walls, and the pomegranates and the

olives in the glen; and among the olives roared Anauros, all foaming

with a summer flood.

And on the bank of Anauros sat a woman, all wrinkled gray, and old; her

head shook palsied on her breast, and her hands shook palsied on her

knees; and when she saw Jason, she spoke whining: "Who will carry me

across the flood?"

Jason was bold and hasty, and was just going to leap into the flood; and

yet he thought twice before he leapt, so loud roared the torrent down,

all brown from the mountain rains, and silver veined with melting snow;

while underneath he could hear the boulders rumbling like the tramp of

horsemen or the roll of wheels, as they ground along the narrow channel,

and shook the rocks on which he stood.

But the old woman whined all the more: "I am weak and old, fair youth.

For Hera's sake, carry me over the torrent."

And Jason was going to answer her scornfully, when Cheiron's words came

to his mind.

So he said: "For Hera's sake, the Queen of the Immortals on Olympus, I

will carry you over the torrent, unless we both are drowned midway."

Then the old dame leapt upon his back, as nimbly as a goat; and Jason

staggered in, wondering; and the first step was up to his knees.

The first step was up to his knees, and the second step was up to his

waist; and the stones rolled about his feet, and his feet slipped about

the stones; so he went on staggering and panting, while the old woman

cried from off his back:

"Fool, you have wet my mantle! Do you make game of poor old souls like

me?"

Jason had half a mind to drop her, and let her get through the torrent

by herself; but Cheiron's words were in his mind, and he said only:

"Patience, mother; the best horse may stumble some day."

At last he staggered to the shore, and set her down upon the bank; and a

strong man he needed to have been, or that wild water he never would

have crossed.

He lay panting awhile upon the bank, and then leapt up to go upon his

journey; but he cast one look at the old woman, for he thought, "She

should thank me once at least."

And as he looked, she grew fairer than all women, and taller than all

men on earth; and her garments shone like the summer sea, and her jewels

like the stars of heaven; and over her forehead was a veil, woven of the

golden clouds of sunset; and through the veil she looked down on him,

with great soft heifer's eyes; with great eyes, mild and awful, which

filled all the glen with light.

And Jason fell upon his knees, and hid his face between his hands.

And she spoke: "I am the Queen of Olympus, Hera the wife of Zeus. As

thou hast done to me, so will I do to thee. Call on me in the hour of

need, and try if the Immortals can forget."

And when Jason looked up, she rose from off the earth, like a pillar of

tall white cloud, and floated away across the mountain peaks, toward

Olympus the holy hill.

Then a great fear fell on Jason; but after a while he grew light of

heart; and he blessed old Cheiron, and said: "Surely the Centaur is a

prophet, and guessed what would come to pass, when he bade me speak

harshly to no soul whom I might meet."

Then he went down toward Iolcos, and as he walked, he found that he had

lost one of his sandals in the flood.

And as he went through the streets, the people came out to look at him,

so tall and fair was he; but some of the elders whispered together; and

at last one of them stopped Jason, and called to him: "Fair lad, who are

you, and whence come you; and what is your errand in the town?"

"My name, good father, is Jason, and I come from Pelion up above; and my

errand is to Pelias your king; tell me then where his palace is."

But the old man started, and grew pale, and said, "Do you not know the

oracle, my son, that you go so boldly through the town, with but one

sandal on?"

"I am a stranger here, and know of no oracle; but what of my one sandal?

I lost the other in Anauros, while I was struggling with the flood."

Then the old man looked back to his companions; and one sighed and

another smiled; at last he said: "I will tell you, lest you rush upon

your ruin unawares. The oracle in Delphi has said, that a man wearing

one sandal should take the kingdom from Pelias, and keep it for

himself. Therefore beware how you go up to his palace, for he is the

fiercest and most cunning of all kings."

Then Jason laughed a great laugh, like a war horse in his pride: "Good

news, good father, both for you and me. For that very end I came into

the town."

Then he strode on toward the palace of Pelias, while all the people

wondered at his bearing.

And he stood in the doorway and cried, "Come out, come out, Pelias the

valiant, and fight for your kingdom like a man."

Pelias came out wondering, and "Who are you, bold youth?" he cried.

"I am Jason, the son of Æson, the heir of all this land."

Then Pelias lifted up his hands and eyes, and wept, or seemed to weep;

and blessed the heavens which had brought his nephew to him, never to

leave him more. "For," said he, "I have but three daughters, and no son

to be my heir. You shall be my heir then, and rule the kingdom after me,

and marry whichsoever of my daughters you shall choose; though a sad

kingdom you will find it, and whosoever rules it a miserable man. But

come in, come in, and feast."

So he drew Jason in, whether he would or not, and spoke to him so

lovingly and feasted him so well, that Jason's anger passed; and after

supper his three cousins came into the hall, and Jason thought that he

should like well enough to have one of them for his wife.

But at last he said to Pelias, "Why do you look so sad, my uncle? And

what did you mean just now, when you said that this was a doleful

kingdom, and its ruler a miserable man?"

Then Pelias sighed heavily again and again and again, like a man who

had to tell some dreadful story and was afraid to begin; but at last:

"For seven long years and more have I never known a quiet night; and no

more will he who comes after me, till the golden fleece be brought

home."

Then he told Jason the story of Phrixus, and of the golden fleece; and

told him, too, which was a lie, that Phrixus's spirit tormented him,

calling to him day and night. And his daughters came, and told the same

tale (for their father had taught them their parts) and wept, and said,

"Oh, who will bring home the golden fleece, that our uncle's spirit may

have rest; and that we may have rest also, whom he never lets sleep in

peace?"

Jason sat awhile, sad and silent; for he had often heard of that golden

fleece; but he looked on it as a thing hopeless and impossible for any

mortal man to win it.

But when Pelias saw him silent, he began to talk of other things, and

courted Jason more and more, speaking to him as if he was certain to be

his heir, and asking his advice about the kingdom; till Jason who was

young and simple, could not help saying to himself, "Surely he is not

the dark man whom people call him. Yet why did he drive my father out?"

And he asked Pelias boldly, "Men say that you are terrible, and a man of

blood; but I find you a kind and hospitable man; and as you are to me,

so will I be to you. Yet why did you drive my father out?"

Pelias smiled and sighed: "Men have slandered me in that, as in all

things. Your father was growing old and weary, and he gave the kingdom

up to me of his own will. You shall see him to-morrow, and ask him; and

he will tell you the same."

Jason's heart leapt in him, when he heard that he was to see his

father; and he believed all that Pelias said, forgetting that his father

might not dare to tell the truth.

"One thing more there is," said Pelias, "on which I need your advice;

for though you are young, I see in you a wisdom beyond your years. There

is one neighbour of mine, whom I dread more than all men on earth. I am

stronger than he now, and can command him; but I know that if he stay

among us, he will work my ruin in the end. Can you give me a plan,

Jason, by which I can rid myself of that man?"

After awhile, Jason answered, half laughing, "Were I you, I would send

him to fetch that same golden fleece; for if he once set forth after it

you would never be troubled with him more."

And at that a bitter smile came across Pelias's lips, and a flash of

wicked joy into his eyes; and Jason saw it, and started; and over his

mind came the warning of the old man, and his own one sandal, and the

oracle, and he saw that he was taken in a trap.

But Pelias only answered gently, "My son, he shall be sent forthwith."

"You mean me?" cried Jason, starting up, "because I came here with one

sandal?" And he lifted his fist angrily, while Pelias stood up to him

like a wolf at bay; and whether of the two was the stronger and the

fiercer, it would be hard to tell.

But after a moment Pelias spoke gently, "Why then so rash, my son? You,

and not I, have said what is said; why blame me for what I have not

done? Had you bid me love the man of whom I spoke, and make him my

son-in-law and heir, I would have obeyed you; and what if I obey you

now, and send the man to win himself immortal fame? I have not harmed

you, or him. One thing at least I know, that he will go, and that

gladly; for he has a hero's heart within him; loving glory, and scorning

to break the word which he has given."

Jason saw that he was entrapped; but his second promise to Cheiron came

into his mind, and he thought, "What if the Centaur were a prophet in

that also, and meant that I should win the fleece!" Then he cried aloud:

"You have well spoken, cunning uncle of mine! I love glory, and I dare

keep to my word. I will go and fetch this golden fleece. Promise me but

this in return, and keep your word as I keep mine. Treat my father

lovingly while I am gone, for the sake of the all-seeing Zeus; and give

me up the kingdom for my own, on the day that I bring back the golden

fleece."

Then Pelias looked at him and almost loved him, in the midst of all his

hate; and said, "I promise, and I will perform. It will be no shame to

give up my kingdom to the man who wins that fleece."

Then they swore a great oath between them; and afterward both went in,

and lay down to sleep.

But Jason could not sleep, for thinking of his mighty oath, and how he

was to fulfil it, all alone, and without wealth or friends. So he tossed

a long time upon his bed, and thought of this plan and of that; and

sometimes Phrixus seemed to call him, in a thin voice, faint and low, as

if it came from far across the sea, "Let me come home to my fathers and

have rest." And sometimes he seemed to see the eyes of Hera, and to hear

her words again, "Call on me in the hour of need, and see if the

Immortals can forget."

And on the morrow he went to Pelias, and said, "Give me a victim, that I

may sacrifice to Hera." So he went up, and offered his sacrifice; and

as he stood by the altar, Hera sent a thought into his mind; and he went

back to Pelias, and said:

"If you are indeed in earnest, give me two heralds, that they may go

round to all the princes of the Minuai who were pupils of the Centaur

with me, that we may fit out a ship together, and take what shall

befall."

At that Pelias praised his wisdom, and hastened to send the heralds out;

for he said in his heart: "Let all the princes go with him, and like

him, never return; for so I shall be lord of all the Minuai, and the

greatest king in Hellas."