princess, but he had a desire to bring happiness wherever he went so he
decided to humor her. He went with his lute to the edge of the forest
that lay just next to his pasture and he played a tune upon it so sweet
as to tame any wild beasts. Then out of the forest came two lions and
two bears, as quietly as if they had been sheep. The king fastened them
to a gilded chariot and drove off for Alcestis with great rejoicing. And
Apollo had the pleasure of seeing the two return and Alcestis crowned as
the queen of Thessaly.
[Illustration: Apollo charms the wild beasts.]
It seemed as if Admetus were destined to enjoy a long and prosperous
reign, but shortly after he brought his queen home he fell ill of a very
deadly plague. Aesculapius, the physician, was no longer able to come to
the king's aid and it seemed as if there was no hope for him. But his
celestial herdsman, Apollo, again befriended him. Apollo was not able to
entirely remove the plague but he decreed that the king should live if
someone, who cared enough for him, would die in his stead.
Admetus was full of joy at this hope. He remembered the vows of faith
and attachment that bound all his courtiers to him and he expected that
a score would at once offer themselves, willing to sacrifice their lives
for their king. But not one was to be found. The bravest warrior, who
would willingly have given his life for his king on the battlefield, had
not the courage to die for him on a sick-bed. Old servants, who had
known the king's bounty and that of his father from the days of their
childhood, were not willing to give up the rest of their few days for
their sovereign. Each subject wished someone else to make the sacrifice.
"Why do not the parents of Admetus give their lives for their son?" was
asked, but these aged people felt that they could not bear to be parted
from him for even a short time, and looked to others.
What was to be done about it. It was an irrevocable decree on the part
of Apollo that he had wrested only by means of much persuasion from the
Fates. There was no remedy for Admetus except this sacrifice.
Then a very strange and wonderful thing happened. Queen Alcestis, the
fair princess who had wanted to ride behind lions and bears when she was
a girl in her own kingdom, had grown very wise and gracious since she
had attained to the throne of Thessaly. It had never for an instant
entered the minds of anyone that she could be offered to the gods in the
place of the king. But Queen Alcestis offered herself to save Admetus,
and as she sickened the king revived and was restored to his old health
and vigor.
Apollo was, of all the mourners of Thessaly, the saddest to see Alcestis
so ill. She had often found her way to the pastures where he led his
flock and had sat on a bank twining wreaths of wild flowers that she
liked better to wear than a crown, while he entertained her with the
music of his lute. And, for once, Apollo did not know what to do,
banished as he was from the council of the gods for a while, and unable
to summon the physician, Aesculapius, to his aid.
He knew that only great strength could bring Alcestis back from the
stupor in which she now lay, neither moving or speaking, and with her
rosy cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He knew, too, that of all the
heroes Hercules was the strongest. Hercules had performed feats that no
one had believed possible. Would he attempt to keep Alcestis safe from
death, Apollo wondered, particularly when he was entreated by a lowly
herdsman?
Hercules assented, however. He took his station at the gates of the
palace and wrestled with Death, throwing him, just as he was about to
enter and claim Alcestis. She lost her weakness, opened her eyes, the
color came again to her cheeks and she was restored to Admetus by this
last labor of Hercules.
So the matter which had bade fair to be so disastrous for a good many
people turned out very well after all. Apollo returned to Mount Olympus
when the period of his exile on the earth was up and he delighted the
Muses much with the sweet tones of his lyre. He even pleaded with his
father, Jupiter, to take pity on Aesculapius and the god at last made a
place for the physician on the road of stars that leads across the sky.
HOW JUPITER GRANTED A WISH.
Each of the villagers in a town of Phrygia heard a knock at the door of
his cottage one summer day in the long-ago time of the myths. Each, on
opening it, saw two strangers, weary travellers, who sought food and a
shelter for the night.
It was a part of the temple teachings that a man should succor a
stranger, no matter how humble, but these Phrygians were a
pleasure-loving, careless people, neglectful of hospitality and of their
temple, even, which had fallen into decay.
So it happened that the same retort met the strangers at whatever door
they stopped.
"Be off! We have only sufficient food for ourselves and no room for any
but members of our own family."
There was not a single door but was shut in the faces of these
travellers.
The afternoon was passing and it would soon be dusk. The strangers,
tired and half famished, climbed a hill on the edge of the village and
came at last upon a little cottage set there among the trees. It was a
very poor and humble cottage, thatched with straw, and barely large
enough for the two old peasants, Philemon and his wife, Baucis, who
lived there. But it opened at once when the strangers knocked to let in
the two strangers.
"We have come to-day from a far country," the one who seemed to be the
older of the two explained.
"And we have not touched food since yesterday," added the younger one
who might have been his son.
"Then you are welcome to whatever we have to offer you," said Philemon.
"We are as poor as the birds that nest in the straw of our eaves, but my
old wife, Baucis, can prepare a meal from very little which may perhaps
serve you if you are hungry. Come in, and share with us whatever we
have."
The two guests crossed the humble threshold, bowing their heads in order
to pass beneath the low lintel, and Baucis offered them a seat and
begged them to try and feel at home.
The day had grown chilly and the old woman raked out the coals from the
ashes, covered them with leaves and dry bark, and blew the fire into
flame with her scanty breath. Then she brought some split sticks and dry
branches from a corner where she had kept them like a treasure and put
them under the kettle that hung over the fire. Afterward, she spread a
white cloth on the table.
As Baucis made these preparations, Philemon went out to their small
garden and gathered the last of the pot-herbs. Baucis put these to boil
in the kettle and Philemon cut a piece from their last flitch of bacon
and put it in to flavor the herbs. A bowl carved from beech wood was
filled with warm water that the strangers might be refreshed by bathing
their faces, and then Baucis tremblingly made the preparations for
serving the meal.
The guests were to sit on the only bench which the cottage afforded and
Baucis laid a cushion stuffed with seaweed on it and over the cushion
she spread a piece of embroidered cloth, ancient and coarse, but one
that she used only on great occasions. One of the legs of the table was
shorter than the other, but Philemon placed a flat stone under it to
make it level, and Baucis rubbed sweet smelling herbs over the entire
top of the table. Then she placed the food before the strangers, the
steaming, savory herbs, olives from the wild trees of Minerva, some
sweet berries preserved in vinegar, cheese, radishes, and eggs cooked
lightly in the ashes. It was served in earthen dishes and beside the
guests stood an earthenware pitcher and two wooden cups.
There could hardly have been a more appetizing supper, and the kindly
cheer of the two old peasants made it seem even more delectable. The
guests ate hungrily and when they had emptied the dishes Baucis brought
a bowl of rosy apples and a comb of wild honey for dessert. She noticed
that the two seemed to be enjoying their milk hugely and it made her
anxious, for the pitcher had not been more than half full. They filled
their cups again and again and drained them.
"They will finish the milk and ask for more," Baucis thought, "and I
have not another drop."
Then a great fear and awe possessed the old woman. She peered over the
shoulder of the older of the strangers into the pitcher and saw that it
was brimming full! He poured from it for his companion and it was again
full to overflowing as he set it down. Here was a miracle, Baucis knew.
Suddenly the strangers rose and their disguise of age and travel stained
garments fell from them. They were Jupiter, the king of the gods, and
his winged son, Mercury!
Baucis and Philemon were struck with terror as they recognized their
heavenly guests, and they fell on their knees at the gods' feet. With
their shaking hands clasped they implored the gods to pardon them for
their poor entertainment.
They had an old goose which they tended and cherished as the guardian of
their cottage, and now they felt that they must kill it as a sacrifice
and offering to Jupiter and Mercury. But the goose ran nimbly away from
them and took refuge between the gods themselves.
"Do not slay the bird," Jupiter commanded. "Your hospitality has been
perfect. But this inhospitable village shall pay the penalty for its
lack of reverence. You alone shall remain unpunished. Come and look at
the valley below."
Baucis and Philemon left the cottage and hobbled a little way down the
hill with the gods. In the last light of the setting sun they saw the
destruction which the people below had brought upon themselves. There
was nothing left of the village. All the valley was sunk in a blue lake,
the borders of it being wild marsh land indented with pools in which the
fen-birds waded and called shrilly.
"There is no house left save ours," Philemon gasped.
Then, as they turned, they saw that their cottage, also, had
disappeared. It had not been destroyed, though. It was transformed.
Stately marble columns had taken the place of the wooden corner posts.
The thatch had grown yellow and was now a golden roof. There were
colored mosaic floors and wide silver doors with ornaments and carvings
of gold. Their little hut, that had been scarcely large enough for two,
had grown to the height and bulk of a temple whose gilded spires reached
up toward the sky. Baucis and Philemon were too awed for words, but
Jupiter spoke to them.
"What further gift of the gods would you like, good people? Ask whatever
you wish and it shall be granted you."
The two old folks consulted for a moment and then Philemon made their
request of Jupiter.
"We would like to be the guardians of your temple, great Jupiter. And
since we have passed so much of our lives here in harmony and love, we
wish that we might always remain here and never be parted for a moment."
As Philemon finished speaking, he heard Jupiter say, "Your wish is
granted." And with these words the gods disappeared from earth. There
was a long trail of purple light in the sky like Jupiter's robe, and
beside it lay two wing-shaped clouds which marked the road Mercury had
taken, but that was all.
Baucis and Philemon went into the temple and were its keepers as long as
they were able. One day in the spring when the old couple had become
very ancient indeed they stood on the temple steps side by side, looking
at the new green the earth was putting forth. In that moment another
miracle happened to them.
Each grew straight instead of bent with age, and their garments were
covered with green leaves. A leafy crown grew upon the head of each and
as they tried to speak, a covering of bark prevented them. Two stately
trees, the linden and the oak, stood beside the temple door to guard it
in the place of the two good old people who, for their reverence, had
been thus transformed by the gods.
HOW HYACINTHUS BECAME A FLOWER.
Kings and athletes, country folk and the musicians, sages and merchants
from the towns were all on their way toward the green hill of Parnassus,
one of the long-ago days of the myths, where the city of Delphi stood.
The kings rode in their gaily adorned chariots which were drawn by the
fleetest steeds from the royal stables. The youths were dressed for
running, or they carried flat, circular discs of stone for throwing at a
mark, javelins and bows and quivers of arrows. The road that led to the
white temple of Apollo at Delphi was choked with people on foot, people
on horseback, and people riding in farm wagons, all going in the same
direction. It was a very great occasion indeed, one that came but once
in five years, the day when the Pythian games in honor of Apollo were
held at Delphi.
They climbed the hill of Parnassus which was a very famous mount,
because of all that had happened there. When the gods saw fit to destroy
the earth, Parnassus, alone, had raised its head above the waters and
sheltered man. There, too, Apollo had transformed his beloved, Daphne,
into a laurel tree and ever since then the slopes of the hill had been
green and pink with the branches and blossoms of the laurel. Now,
Parnassus sheltered one of the most famed cities of Greece, Delphi, and
on a wide plain, near a deep cleft in the rock where the oracle was
supposed to speak, the games of the Greeks were held in honor of Apollo,
who was the god of sports.
The ground about the game field and the tiers of stone seats surrounding
it were soon filled with a crowd of onlookers in their holiday garments
of white and purple and gold. Upon a carved marble pillar at the
entrance of the field was hung a great wreath of laurel, the prize of
the winner, and everyone was talking about who this would be.
"The greatest test of all is the discus throwing," a lad on the edge of
the crowd said to another. "The stone that is hurled from a javelin, or
a spear thrown by a trained soldier has a chance to go straight to the
mark, but who can aim the thin discus with the wind waiting to turn it
from its course and carry it wide of the mark?"
The other lad thought for a moment. Then he spoke.
"The youth, Hyacinthus, could," he said.
"Oh, Hyacinthus!" the first lad replied as if the name was a kind of
spell to work magic. "Hyacinthus, of course, would win the prize, for is
he not the friend of Apollo? It is said that the great god of sports has
visited and played games with Hyacinthus ever since the lad was able to
swing a javelin. He comes to him in the form of a youth like himself
because he loves him so, and they run races and have contests of skill
here on Parnassus, and roam the groves together. How great an honor to
have a god for one's friend!" the boy said wistfully.
But both boys stepped back then and watched breathlessly as four war
chariots, driven abreast, approached. The horses sweated and foamed, the
drivers stood up perilously, shouting and gripping the reins as the
chariots tipped and crashed along the course. Two chariots locked wheels
and the drivers fell beneath the terrified, stamping steeds, but no one
heeded them as the other two rolled and swayed past them, and one
reached the goal heralded by a shout the crowd sent up as if from one
giant throat.
"Now, the discus combat!" the boy who had spoken before said, as a
slender youth in a robe of Tyrian dyes stepped proudly into the centre
of the field holding the flat, round discus in his hand.
"Hyacinthus, by my word!" the second lad exclaimed, "but who is that
beside him?" he asked, as another youth, dark eyed, straight limbed, and
with a countenance that shone like fire appeared, as if he had dropped
from the clouds, and took his place beside Hyacinthus.
"It is Apollo himself in the guise of a youth!" the awed whisper ran
through the crowd. "He has come to guide the discus that his friend
Hyacinthus carries straight to the mark."
That was the wonder that had happened. Those who had far-seeing eyes
could discern in the strange youth on the game field the god Apollo, his
crown of light showing in bright rays about his head. No one spoke. All
faces were turned toward the two as Apollo grasped the discus, raised it
far above his head, and with a strange power mingled with skill sent it
high and far.
Hyacinthus watched the discus cut through the air as straight as an
arrow shot from a bow. He was perfectly sure that it would skim, without
turning, as far as the goal at the opposite end of the field and perhaps
farther, for he had great faith in this heavenly youth who had been his
companion in so many good times. As swiftly as the discus traveled, did
Hyacinthus' thoughts wing their memories of Apollo's friendship. He had
accompanied Hyacinthus in his tramps through the forest, carried the
nets when he went fishing, led his dogs to the chase and even neglected
his lyre for their excursions up to the top of Parnassus.
"I will run ahead and bring back the discus," Hyacinthus thought, and
excited by the sport and the crowds, he leaped forward to follow the
flight of the swift stone.
At that instant the discus, turned from its course by Zephyrous, the
wind-god, who also loved Hyacinthus and was jealous of Apollo's
affection for him, struck the earth and bounded back, hitting
Hyacinthus' forehead.
Apollo, as pale as the fallen Hyacinthus, ran to his side, raised him,
and tried with all his art to stop the bleeding of his wound and save
his life. But the youth's hurt was beyond the power of all healing. As a
white lily, when one has broken it, hangs its head in the garden and
turns toward the earth, so the head of the dying Hyacinthus, too heavy
for his neck, lay upon his shoulders.
"I have killed you, my dearest friend," Apollo cried, as the people
pushed closer to see the tragedy and then turned their faces away from
this grief of a god which was greater than a mortal could feel. "I have
robbed you of your youth. Yours was the suffering and mine the crime. I
would that I were able to mingle my blood with yours which is spilled
here for me." Then Apollo was silent, looking at the ground where
Hyacinthus' blood had stained the grass, for a wonder was happening.
The crimson stain on the leaves changed to royal purple, and the stem
and foliage and petals of a new flower appeared, so sweetly fragrant
that it filled the whole field with its perfume. There had never been so
beautiful a blossom as this. Touching its wax-like flowers, Apollo knew
that the gods had comforted him in his sorrow. His friend would live
always in the flower that had sprung where he fell on Parnassus, our
hyacinth, the promise of the spring.
HOW KING MIDAS LOST HIS EARS.
They needed a new king in the country of Phrygia in Asia and there was
an old saying at the court that some day they would have a ruler who
arrived at the palace in a farm wagon.
No one had thought very much about this prophecy but, to the surprise of
all, a peasant and his wife drove into the public square one day in an
ox cart, bringing their son, Midas, on the seat between them. The
peasant's name was Gordius, and he dismounted, tying his wagon in such a
hard knot that it looked as if he intended that the team should stay
there. In fact it was called the Gordian knot and it was so hard a knot
that it was reported that he who was able to untie it would be the ruler
of all Asia.
The wagon remained there, just outside the palace gates, securely
fastened, and Gordius and his wife walked home leaving Midas. It was so
exactly an interpretation of the prophecy that Midas was made king and
put upon the throne of Phrygia.
He had every opportunity of being a ruler of parts, for his humble
birth would not have interfered at all, but Midas, from the very
beginning of his reign, used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead
of carrying out the will of the people.
Bacchus, with vine leaves twisted about his curling locks and a goblet
of the purple juice of the grape always in his hand, was the god of the
vineyards. King Midas made the acquaintance of Bacchus, who was a
friendly, peaceful god and fond of human companionship. And Bacchus
unexpectedly offered Midas his choice of any wish that he cherished.
What did King Midas ask but that whatever he touched might be turned to
gold!
He hardly believed that Bacchus would be able to grant the gift of such
greedy power as this, and Bacchus wished that Midas had made a better
choice. The god consented, though, and King Midas hurried off to test
his gift alone so that he need not share it with anyone. He could not
believe his eyes when he discovered that the twig of an oak, which he
pulled from a branch, turned in his fingers to a bar of solid gold. He
picked up a stone; it turned to a gold nugget. He touched a piece of
sod; it became a mass of gold dust, thick and heavy. He snatched an
apple from an orchard tree; it was as if he had robbed the gardens of
Hesperides of one of their apples of gold. King Midas' joy knew no
bounds. He hurried home and ordered his servants to prepare and serve a
most costly and elaborate feast for him in celebration of his new found
gift of gold.
He was hungry and could scarcely wait to eat; he almost snatched a piece
of white bread to begin his meal. What was King Midas' surprise to see
the bread harden into a slab of yellow metal in his hands. He lifted a
goblet of creamy milk to his lips and it congealed into a thick, molten
liquid of gold. It was so with whatever King Midas tried to eat; fowls,
fruit, cakes, all were changed to gold before he had a chance to even
touch the food with his lips. He was faced in the midst of all his
wealth with death by starvation.
Raising his arms, shining with gold, in supplication to Bacchus, Midas
begged that he might be saved from his own power of glittering
destruction.
Although the gods were able to grant gifts, it was not possible for
Bacchus to relieve a man from the dangers of his own use of a godly gift
unless he, himself, helped. Bacchus was too kind hearted, however, to
leave the foolish king to his fate so he consented to show him a way out
of his dilemma.
"Go," he told Midas, "to the River Pactolus. Follow its winding course
to the fountain head and then plunge your body and head in its waters to
wash away your greed and its punishment."
It was a long and difficult journey for King Midas whose joints, even,
creaked and were stiff with the golden metal into which they had
changed, and who could find no food or any bed on the way that was not
at once transformed to gold the instant he touched it. He was obliged to
flee and hide from robbers who pursued this fugitive form of gold. At
last, however, he came to the river, immersed himself in it, and had the
relief of feeling his stiff, glittering body soften to its natural flesh
again.
"I have had enough of the power of gold," Midas said when he returned
to his court. "From this time I shall avoid all riches and live in the
country."
So King Midas acquired a farm and took his court there, becoming a
worshipper of Pan, the goat-footed god of the fields.
The god Pan was the merriest and almost the best beloved of all the
gods, for his domain was the whole of the beautiful, wide outdoors. He
was a wanderer of the mountains and valleys through all the seasons,
peering into the grottos where the shepherds lived, amusing himself by
chasing the nymphs, and bringing laughter and merriment wherever he
went. The stump of a tree with its shaggy roots was Pan's pillow and the
dusky leaves his only shelter.
No one on the earth was safe from the wiles of Pan. One summer day
Diana, the huntress, was roaming through a forest when she heard a
rustle of leaves in the path behind her. Turning, she saw the dark,
mocking face of Pan and his horned head and hairy body. Diana fled and
Pan followed.
Pan must have known it was a goddess whom he pursued, for Diana's
hunting horn and her bow were of silver like the moon whose deity she
was, but this did not stop him. On he went as Diana ran in terror from
him until they came to the bank of a river. Here Pan overtook her and
Diana had only time to call to her friends, the water-nymphs, for aid
when the god clasped her in his arms.