reeds in his hands through which the nymphs had allowed the goddess to
escape. Pan held up the reeds and breathed a sigh through them because
of the failure of his prank. The reeds gave out a lovely melody. Pan was
charmed with the novelty and the sweetness of the music. He took some of
the reeds of unequal lengths and, placing them side by side, he bound
them together. So he made his pipes on which he learned to play tunes
like the singing of birds and the babbling of brooks.
King Midas enjoyed his life in the country, and he made the acquaintance
of the god Pan as he had that of Bacchus. He encouraged Pan in his
tricks and flattered him by telling him how well he played his pipes.
"If you think me skilful, King Midas, it is possible that I may
challenge Apollo in a contest of musical skill," Pan boasted.
"It would be an excellent idea," King Midas replied.
Midas should have known better and so should the frolicsome, reckless
Pan. Apollo's lute was the musical instrument of the heavens and Pan's
pipes could play only the tunes of earth, but Pan sent for Apollo and
the god of light and song descended to a green field where the contest
was to be held. Tmolus, the mountain god, was chosen to be the judge and
at a signal Pan played the rustic melody on his pipes which was all he
knew, and which greatly pleased King Midas who sat near to listen.
Then Apollo rose, crowned with laurel and wearing a robe of Tyrian
purple that swept the ground. He struck the strings of his lyre and
earth was filled with the music of the gods. The mountain-god swept away
the trees that surrounded him so that he could listen better, and the
trees themselves leaned toward Apollo in wonder and homage. When the
music stopped, the strings still vibrated making the hills carry and
echo the harmony to the skies. The mountain-god awarded the victory in
the unequal contest to Apollo, but King Midas objected.
"I like better the music of Pan's pipes," he said. "I question the
judgment of Tmolus."
Poor old Midas, still self centered and earthly! Apollo could not suffer
such a depraved pair of ears to wear human form any longer. He touched
Midas' ears and they began to lengthen, to move where they joined his
head, and they grew heavy inside and outside. Midas had the ears of an
ass!
Such a mortification for a king to have to bear! Indeed King Midas could
not stand it alone, and he told the secret of his odd ears to the court
hair-dresser in order to get his help in disguising them.
"But on pain of death do not tell anyone about my ears!" Midas
commanded.
The hairdresser cut the King's hair so as to cover up the flopping ass's
ears and he even fashioned a large turban to further conceal them, but
he couldn't keep such a good secret. He went out into a meadow, dug a
hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the secret into it.
Then he carefully covered it up.
In a very short time a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow in the
exact spot where the hairdresser had buried the secret of King Midas'
disgrace. As soon as the reeds had grown high enough to be played upon
by the breezes they began to whisper the story of the king who had to
finish his reign with a pair of asses' ears instead of his own, because
of his self will. And it is said that the meadow reeds, blown by the
wind, tell the story of King Midas to-day.
HOW MERCURY GAVE UP HIS TRICKS.
Apollo was in great trouble, for he had lost one of the herds of cattle
he owned upon the earth. He knew the exact spot where he had left them
the night before in a pasture of Arcadia, but when he rode out the next
morning in his chariot of light with the first dawning of the day, the
herd had disappeared. He searched the country for leagues about, but was
unable to find a single trace of the cows. There was not even one hoof
print to tell where they had gone.
As Apollo searched, he met a farmer of that country named Battus, whose
eyes were fairly popping out of his head with wonder.
"Have you seen a straying herd of cattle in these parts, rustic?" Apollo
asked him. "I have lost my best herd, and can find trace of neither hoof
or hide of one of them."
"I saw strange doings last evening with a herd," Battus replied. "The
night was dark and cloudy, and I went out to see if my flock of sheep
was safely fastened in the fold. What I saw was like one of the tricks
that Pan and his family of Satyrs plays, but I doubt if even they have
such witching powers. I do believe that I must have dreamed it."
"Tell me what you saw with no further words," Apollo commanded the
farmer impatiently.
"It was in the middle of the night," Battus explained. "As I passed a
field where a fine herd of cattle was at rest I saw a child coming as
swiftly and as surely over the grass as if he had wings. Once in a while
he stopped and gathered a handful of broom straw, sorting it into
bunches and tying it with dried grass. Presently the child came to the
herd, and he tied a bunch of straw to the hoof of each cow. Then he
drove the entire herd backward toward the cave of Pylos that you know is
but a short distance from here. I followed him for part of the way, but
I lost them, for the child went with the speed of the wind. I could not
find their trail again, because they left not a single foot print. The
brooms on their hoofs swept their track clean."
"A trick played on me, of the circle of the gods!" Apollo exclaimed,
his eyes dark with anger and the rays of light he wore about his head
sending off sparks of fire. And without so much as thanking Battus for
his information, Apollo drove with the swiftness of lightning to the
cave of Pylos. There was his herd feeding peacefully outside, and as
Apollo forced his way into the cave, he saw the mischievous little boy
who had been the cause of all the trouble.
He was still fast asleep and he was quite alone, for he had been born in
that cave and knew no other home. Apollo shook him, and he opened a pair
of the brightest, most roguish eyes that ever were seen in the earth or
on Mount Olympus either. But when he spied Apollo, he closed them again,
pretending that he was asleep, for, like most people who use their
clever wits to make trouble for others, he didn't want to be found out.
It was Mercury, and he had begun as early as this to play tricks on even
the gods.
"What do you mean by driving away the herds of Arcadia to this lonely
spot?" Apollo asked Mercury angrily. "Do you not know that the
inhabitants of the country depend on them for food and that the gods,
descending to earth, have need of cream and curds?"
But Mercury said not a word. He only shrugged his small shoulders and
squeezed his eyes more tightly shut.
"Well, you shall be punished as you deserve," Apollo said, quite losing
his patience, and he picked up Mercury, not very gently, and dropped him
into his chariot. Then he drove off with him as fast as he could
straight up to the throne of Jupiter, the king of the gods, on Mount
Olympus.
It must have been quite an ordeal, particularly for a little boy like
Mercury. Jupiter's throne was very high and quite blinded his eyes with
its flashing gold and precious stones, and there were piles of
thunderbolts close by all ready to throw if the need arose. And Jupiter
himself wore a very dark frown when Apollo told him of the trick that
Mercury had played.
"He shall be thrown--" Jupiter began, having in mind the punishment of
denying Mercury the fellowship of the gods, but just then Mercury looked
the king of the gods straight in the eyes, and Jupiter looked back. Then
Jupiter started, for he saw that Mercury was, himself, a god. He might
be, just then, a very naughty and young god, but it seemed as if he
could do great deeds if only he were to make up his mind to. Jupiter
called Mercury close to his throne and spoke to him.
"I, myself, have lost a cow," he told Mercury. "In fact she is not
really a cow at all, but a beautiful maiden named Io, in disguise, and I
understand that she lives upon the earth guarded by a watchman named
Argus who has a hundred eyes. I should like to rescue the lovely Io and
restore her to her proper form, but Argus never closes all of his eyes
at once. He sleeps with as many as fifty of them open. Could you help me
in this matter, do you suppose?"
Mercury stood up very straight as he said,
"I will try."
"You may need help, lad," Apollo said, forgetting his anger in his
interest at this great adventure Mercury was going to attempt. "Take
these," and he gave the young god some very useful presents, a golden
divining rod made in a design of two twined serpents, and a pair of
wings for his feet and a pair also for his cap.
As Mercury took the golden rod in his hand and fastened on his wings,
he suddenly grew very tall and of almost the stature and pattern of the
gods. He was their messenger now, and he knew that he had quicker wits
and more shrewdness than any of them. He set out at once for the green
fields of Arcadia where Io was pastured.
And there was old Argus guarding her with all his hundred eyes. He let
the little heifer feed during the day, but when night came he tied a
rough rope around her neck. She longed to stretch out her arms and
implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to stretch and her voice
was only a loud bellow that frightened even herself. Her father and her
brothers fed her tufts of grass but did not know who she was. No wonder
Mercury made haste to come to Io's help, laying aside his wings when he
reached Argus and keeping only his wand. On the way he borrowed the
pipes of Pan and brought a flock of sheep so that he appeared before
Argus as only a wandering shepherd.
Argus listened to the music of the pipes with the greatest delight, for
he had never heard them before. He called to Mercury as he strolled
along.
"Come and take a seat by me on this stone," he begged. "There is no
better grazing ground in all Arcadia than this."
So Mercury sat down beside Argus and played to him as long as he wished,
and then he told him stories all the rest of the day until the sun had
set and it was starlight and Io still grazed nearby without being tied.
As the night wore on and Mercury still soothed Argus with his music and
his tales, one by one his hundred eyes closed. At the first streak of
dawn, the last eye was shut, and Mercury led Io away to Jupiter to be
restored to her proper shape. He did something else too. He gave Juno
all of Argus' eyes as a present, which pleased her so much that she put
them for ornaments in the tail of her peacock. You may see them there
to-day.
So Mercury was safe in the good graces of the gods. They began giving
him unusual things to do, such as taking Pandora and her enchanted box
down to the earth, carrying new suits of armor to the heroes, and taking
off the chains which Mars, the clumsy god of war, had made for his own
uses but had become bound with himself. These commissions were little
more than fun for Mercury, and they made him feel so important that he
began playing tricks again.
Almost all the gods had their own particular treasures which were, in a
way, the marks of their authority and power. They grew to depend on
these and to feel that they could not carry on their good works without
them. And what did that rascal, Mercury, do but take Venus' jewelled
girdle, Jupiter's sceptre, Mars' best sword, Vulcan's tongs, and
Neptune's trident, and either hide them or try to make use of them
himself for a while. Then he would manage to make up in some way for his
mischief and smooth the whole matter over. It caused a great deal of
anxiety and inconvenience among the gods and at last they sent Mercury
down to earth once more to act as a guide to the heroes when they
undertook dangerous adventures.
So Mercury took his winged way from one end of the world to the other.
Whenever there was a hazard where skill and dexterity were needed as
greatly as courage, Mercury was there. His journeys took him to the
islands of Greece and to many foreign lands, and in these travels he
never lost a chance to direct travellers and strangers who had lost
their way.
Mercury was so busy that he forgot to play tricks on either the gods or
men, and after a while he was accepted as a member in good standing of
the family of the gods. The people of Greece had reason to worship
Mercury because of something very helpful that he did for them.
There was a place in Greece where several roads met. It was really such
a place as is known as the cross-roads now, and dangerous. A traveller
on foot was not able to see the approach of a swiftly driven chariot,
and a stranger might easily lose his his way, for the roads were not
marked. Mercury set up the first sign post here at the cross-roads with
plain directions telling where each one of the roads led.
The Greeks placed sign posts in honor of Mercury at every crossing of
the roads after that, much more beautiful than ours because they were
made in the form of marble pillars with a head of Mercury in his winged
cap at the top. Every man who came to one of these first sign posts was
asked to place a stone beside it as an offering to Mercury. The stones
were greatly appreciated by this god of speed, for they helped in
clearing the fields and making the roads easier to travel. Commerce and
business were beginning. Loads of timber and grain and wool and fruits
were carried in huge ox carts to the sea to be loaded in ships, and
Mercury wanted good roads as a help to commerce.
Mercury turned out very well indeed, in spite of his bad beginning. It
had depended upon how he used his wits, whether or not he helped the
world or hindered it.
A LITTLE ERRAND GIRL'S NEW DRESS
Once upon a time there was a child of the gods named Iris who had many
very interesting relatives. On her mother's side was the Pleiades
family, daughters of old Atlas who held the earth on his shoulders and
nymphs in the train of Diana, the huntress. Diana was to be seen in the
silvery moon of the night sky, and the Pleiades surrounded her there,
seven shining stars.
Iris had a most distinguished grandfather, Oceanus, the sea god. So she
spent part of her time in the sky with the Pleiades and part in the
ocean with her grandfather. It was very interesting to be in either
place, for she loved the bright lights of the heavens, and the coral
palaces of the sea made delightful places to explore.
All of her family loved Iris, and it is surprising that she was not
spoiled with the amount of freedom she had, going here and there between
earth and sky without any one saying no to her. But Iris had been well
brought up, and she began when she was still quite small making herself
just as useful as she possibly could.
At that time another child of the gods, Proserpine, had made a great
deal of trouble by straying away from home and being kidnapped by Pluto.
Her mother Ceres, the goddess of the fields, had to neglect her work for
a long time as she searched for Proserpine, and the earth grew dry and
barren in her absence. As Iris took her way from the sky to the sea and
then back again, she felt sorry for the grain, the fruits and the
flowers that were withering, and she did wish that she might help them.
One summer day Iris was paying a visit to Oceanus, her grandfather, and
having a most beautiful time riding the crest of the waves on a
frolicsome dolphin. The sea was covered with soft, light vapor and when
it was time for Iris to go home to the sky in order to be there in time
to help light the lamps of the Pleiades, she wrapped herself all about
with this fleecy vapor. Still wearing it like a cloak, Iris reached the
sky when a most unusual thing happened. It was so cool up there among
the clouds that the sea foam turned to raindrops. Iris had to hurry
away or she would have been wet through. Leaning over the edge of a
cloud bank to see what was happening, she discovered that a shower of
rain was falling to cool the earth and comfort it a little in its
condition of drought.
Iris could travel with the speed of the wind from one end of the world
to the other, and after that she busied herself searching for thirsty
plants and trying to help them. She would descend to the ocean, a lake
or a river, wherever she might be, and carry vapor that was full of
water to the sky from which it dropped to earth to nourish all growing
things. The farmers looked upon Iris as their most important help, and
at last the news of her good works came to the ears of the gods on
Olympus.
The gods had one messenger, Mercury, who wore wings on his heels and
also on his cap. He was so swift that he was detailed to carry out the
most difficult and delicate errands of the gods such as taking new suits
of armor to the warriors of Greece, guiding the heroes, and even
rescuing Mars, the god of war, when he once found himself bound by the
chains he had designed for others. But one never knew exactly how
Mercury would carry out a commission. He liked to linger with Pan in the
woods and forests, giving as an excuse the care of young Bacchus, god of
the vine, whom he must guard.
So the gods decided that they would have an errand girl who would live
on Olympus and leave the habitation of the gods only when it was
necessary to go to man as a guide and adviser.
That was the high trust which was given Iris by the gods. She had to use
her own judgment to quite an extent as to when and where she was most
needed by the dwellers of the earth, and how she could best help them.
One day she noticed something happening in the kingdom of her
grandfather.
A ship glided out of a harbor, the breeze playing among the ropes, and
the seamen drew in their oars and hoisted their sails. The night drew
on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind blew
a gale. The captain gave orders to strengthen the ship and reef the sail
but none of the sailors could hear his voice above the roar of the wind
and the sea. The cries of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the
breaking surf mingled with the thunder. Then the swelling sea seemed to
be lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds, and
then sink away to the bottom.
The ship could not stand the storm; it seemed like a wild beast charged
upon by the spears of the hunter. There came a flash of lightning,
tearing the darkness asunder, and illuminating all with its glare. It
shattered the mast and broke the rudder, and the triumphant surge,
rising over the ship, looked down on the wreck, then fell and crushed it
to fragments. As the ship went down, the captain cried out in longing,
"Halcyone!"
Then Iris, who could see beyond and through the darkness, had a vision
of the beautiful Queen Halcyone, of Sicily, who mourned her shipwrecked
husband, the captain of this ship.
Without a moment's hesitation, Iris set out for the palace of Somnus,
the king of sleep. It was a long and dangerous journey. Even Apollo did
not dare to approach it at dawn, noon, or evening. It was set in a
country where the light glimmered but faintly, and clouds and shadows
rose out of the ground. No wild beast, or cattle, or tree moved by the
wind, or any sound of voices broke the stillness, but the river Lethe
flowed through it, rippling with a low kind of lullaby.
Iris approached the home of Somnus very timidly. All the way there were
fields of poppies and the herbs from which Night distilled sleep to
scatter over the darkened earth. There was no gate to the palace to
creak as it opened, or any watchman. So this little errand girl of the
gods went inside and made her way to the room where there was a throne
of black ebony draped with dusky plumes and curtains. On the throne
reclined Somnus, scarcely opening his eyes, and with his hair and beard
covering him like a mantle.
Iris knelt before him,
"Somnus, gentlest of the gods, and soother of careworn hearts," she
said, "will you not allow me to despatch a dream to Halcyone about her
husband whom she mourns. See these dreams that lie around you, as many
as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore
grains of sand! Can you not spare one beautiful dream for Halcyone?"
Somnus called his servant, Morpheus, who selected a dream and flew,
making no noise with his wings, until he came to the city of Trachine
where Halcyone could not sleep, but lay and tossed and wept in terror at
the thought of what might have happened to her husband's ship. And at
that moment Halcyone fell into a deep and happy dream in which she saw
her husband. He stood beside her couch and spoke to her.
"The stormy winds have sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea," he told
Halcyone, "let me not be alone. Arise and come with me!"
It was the most enlightening dream that Somnus could have sent. Halcyone
left off her lamentations and implored the gods that she be allowed to
join her husband, and the pitying gods turned them both into birds. They
became the Halcyone gulls of the sea, riding the surf together, guarding
their nest that floated upon the sea, and never again separated.
As soon as she felt sure that her errand was safely accomplished, Iris
made haste to leave the domain of Somnus, for she felt its drowsiness
creeping over her. She tried not to crush any of the sleep producing
herbs as she went, and she was careful not to pick a single poppy. At
last she was safely outside the boundaries, and then she could hardly
believe what she saw, for a wonder had happened to her.
The gods had built her a long bridge that arched from the earth to the
sky and over which she could go home to Olympus. It was made of colored
stones, the ruby, the topaz, the emerald, the sapphire, and the
amethyst. Row upon row the glistening stones of the arch made a bright
path for Iris' feet. She passed along it, the light of the brilliant
gems scintillating about her, and when she came to the abode of the
gods, Iris found another surprise. There was a beautiful new dress
waiting for her there.
It had the same colors as those of the precious stones that made the
bridge, crimson, orange and yellow, green, blue, and violet and so
marvellously blended that they seemed to be one pattern and one piece of
brightness. There were wings that went with the dress, and when Iris put
it on not even Juno had so beautiful a garment.
Iris wore her dress of colors as she took her way along her arched
bridge from Olympus to earth and then back again. And her errands were
those of help and courage and bright hope.
Have you guessed who she was? Why, of course you have, for you see her
bridge of colors in the sky after a shower when the sun is shining
through the clouds. Iris was the child of the gods who gave us the
rainbow.
WHEN PROSERPINE WAS LOST
There were lilies and great blue violets growing wild on the banks of
the lake in the vale of Enna. How could a little girl resist them, and
particularly Proserpine whose mother was Ceres, the goddess of
agriculture, and who had played and lived outdoors all her life?
Proserpine had been racing through the forest with some of her boy and
girls friends, farther than was wise.
"Don't go out of sight of our own home fields," Ceres had said that
morning.
But here was Proserpine out of sight and sound of her playmates even.
Violets like to grow in damp, dark places, and Proserpine had followed
their blue trail until she was shut in the vale of Enna by the trees.
She was quite alone and, suddenly, in danger.
There was the sound of racing chariot steeds and the crash of heavy
wheels breaking the low branches and the bushes. A dark shadow made the
vale darker than it had been before. A black chariot burst into sight,
drawn by black horses and driven by a man who was dressed in black from
head to foot. He was Pluto, the king of darkness, who had been waiting
for a long time for this chance to kidnap fair little Proserpine. Her
flowers fell from her apron in which she had been holding them; she
screamed, but there was no one to hear her. Pluto dragged her into his
grasp and threw her in the chariot. The horses dashed away, and
Proserpine left the land of springtime for Pluto's dark kingdom beneath
the earth.
Pluto shouted to his steeds, calling each by name, and giving them the
length of the iron colored reins over their heads and necks. He reached
the River Cyane which had no bridge, but he struck the waters with his
trident and they rolled back, giving him a passage down through the
earth to Tartarus where his throne was.
It was a prison place that they reached by way of a deep gulf, and its
recesses were as far beneath the level of the earth as Mount Olympus was
high above their heads. A strange sound of singing came to Proserpine
from the depths of the cave where Pluto led her:
"Twist ye, twine ye! Even so,
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife
In the thread of human life."
And when Proserpine's eyes were a little more used to the dimness of the
cave she saw three gray women, the Fates, with threads and shears,
seated beside the throne and singing those words. One of them spun the
thread of life, and another twisted its bright and dark lines together.
But the third Fate cut the threads apart whenever she liked.