asked.
"You may use your skill to build temples to the two in the country of
Arcadia which they so loved," Proteus said. "Take your way home. Forget
your own gains for a while and gather stones to fit together for the
altars."
So the bee-man did this, and he discovered that he came to enjoy the
work very much. He took pleasure in cutting and polishing the stones
until they were as beautiful as those of any temple in Greece. As he
worked in the grove that he had selected for his building he often
thought that he detected the music of Orpheus' lyre as the birds sang,
and the streams rippled, and the wind blew through the leaves. He found
it very sweet indeed.
One day, shortly after his beautiful altars were built, Aristaeus found
a wonder. It was spring, when the nearby orchards were white and sweet
with blossoms, and there were all his honey bees returned, and busily
starting their hives under the shadow of the temple of Eurydice.
WHEN POMONA SHARED HER APPLES.
Pomona was a dryad, and Venus had given her a wild apple tree to be her
home. As Pomona grew up under the shadow of its branches, protecting the
buds from winter storms, dressing herself in its pink blossoms in the
spring time, and holding up her hands to catch its apples in the fall,
she found that her love for this fruit tree was greater than anything
else in her life. At last Pomona planted the first orchard and lived in
it and tended it.
The dryads were those favored children of the gods who lived in the
ancient woods and groves, each in her special tree. Dressed in
fluttering green garments, they danced through the woodland ways with
steps as light as the wind, sang to the tune of Pan's pipe, or fled,
laughing, from the Fauns. They missed Pomona in the woods, and tales
came to these forest dwellers of the wonders she was working in the
raising of fruits fit for the table of the gods.
She had trees on which golden oranges and yellow lemons hung among deep
green leaves. She raised citrons and limes, and even cultivated the wide
spreading tamarind tree whose fruit was of such value to Epictetus, the
physician of Greece, in cooling the fires of fever. The wood folk left
their mossy hiding places to peer over the wall of Pomona's orchard and
watch her working so busily there.
They were a strange company. Pan came from Arcadia where he was the god
of flocks and shepherds. He had fastened some reeds from the stream
together to make his pipes, and on them he could play the merriest
music. It sounded like birds and the singing of brooks and summer
breezes all in one. With Pan came his family of Fauns, the deities of
the woods and fields. Their bodies were covered with bristling hair,
there were short, sprouting horns on their heads, and their feet were
shaped like those of a goat. Pan was of the same strange guise as the
Fauns were, but to distinguish his rank, he wore a garland of pine about
his head.
These and Pomona's sisters, the dryads, watched her longingly from the
budding time of the year until the harvest. It was a pleasant sight to
see Pomona taking care of her apples. She was never without a pruning
knife which she carried as proudly as Jupiter did his sceptre. With it
she trimmed away the foliage of her fruit trees wherever it had grown
too thick, cut the branches that had straggled out of shape, and
sometimes deftly split a twig to graft in a new one so that the tree
might bear different, better apples.
Pomona even led streams of water close to the roots of the trees so that
they need not suffer from drought. She looked, herself, a part of the
orchard, for she wore a wreath of bright fruits and her arms were often
full of apples almost as huge and golden as the famous apples of
Hesperides.
The dryads and the Fauns begged one, at least, of the apples, but Pomona
refused them all. She had grown selfish through the seasons in which she
had brought her orchard to a state of such bounteous perfection. She
would not give away a single apple, and she kept her gate always locked.
So the wood creatures were obliged to go home empty handed to their
forest places.
In those days Vertumnus was one of the lesser gods who watched over the
seasons. The fame of Pomona's fruits came to the ear of Vertumnus and he
was suddenly possessed of a great desire to share the orchard and its
care with her. He sent messengers in the form of the birds to plead his
cause with Pomona, but she was just as cruel to him as she had been to
the family of Pan and to her own sisters. She had made up her mind that
she would never share her orchard with any one in the world.
Vertumnus would not give up, though. He had the power to change his form
as he willed, and he decided to go to Pomona in disguise to see if he
could not win her by appealing to her pity. She was obliged to buy her
grain, and one day in October when the apple boughs bent low with their
great red and yellow balls a reaper came to the orchard gate with a
basket of ears of corn for Pomona.
"I ask no gold for my grain," he said to the goddess, "I want only a
basket full of fruit in return for it."
"My fruit is not to be given away or bartered for. It is mine and mine
alone until it spoils," Pomona replied, driving the reaper away.
But the following day a farmer stopped at the orchard, an ox goad in
his hand as if he had just unyoked a pair of weary oxen from his hay
cart, left them resting beside some stream, and had gone on to ask
refreshment for himself. Pomona invited him into her orchard, but she
did not offer him a single apple. As soon as the sun began to lower she
bade him be on his way.
In the days that followed Vertumnus came to Pomona in many guises. He
appeared with a pruning hook and a ladder as if he were a vine dresser
ready and willing to climb up into her trees and help her gather the
harvest. But Pomona scorned his services. Then Vertumnus trudged along
as a discharged soldier in need of alms, and again with a fishing rod
and a string of fish to exchange for only one apple. Each time that
Vertumnus came disguised to Pomona he found her more beautiful and her
orchard a place of greater plenty than ever; but the richer her harvest
the deeper was her greed. She refused to share even a half of one of her
apples.
At last, when the vines were dripping with purple juice of the grape and
the boughs of the fruit trees hung so heavily that they touched the
ground, a strange woman hobbled down the road and stopped at Pomona's
gate. Her hair was white and she was obliged to lean on a staff. Pomona
opened the gate and the crone entered and sat down on a bank, admiring
the trees.
"Your orchard does you great credit, my daughter," she said to Pomona.
Then she pointed to a grape vine that twined itself about the trunk and
branches of an old oak. The oak was massive and strong, and the vine
clung to it in safety and had covered itself with bunches of beautiful
purple grapes.
"If that tree stood alone," the old woman explained to Pomona, "with no
vine to cling to it, it would have nothing to offer but its useless
leaves. And if the vine did not have the tree to cling to, it would have
to lie prostrate on the ground.
"You should take a lesson from the vine. Might not your orchard be still
more fruitful if you were to open the gate to Vertumnus who has charge
of the seasons and can help you as the oak helps the vine? The gods
believe in sharing the gifts they give the earth. No one who is selfish
can prosper for long."
"Tell me about this Vertumnus, good mother," Pomona asked curiously.
"I know Vertumnus as well as I know myself," the crone replied. "He is
not a wandering god, but belongs among these hills and pastures of our
fair land. He is young and handsome and has the power to take upon
himself any form that he may wish. He likes the same things that you do,
gardening, and caring for the ruddy fruits. Venus, who gave you an apple
tree to be your first home, hates a hard heart and if you will persist
in living alone in your orchard, refusing to share your apples, she is
likely to punish you by sending frosts to blight your young fruits and
terrible winds to break the boughs."
Pomona clasped her hands in fear. She suddenly understood how true was
everything that this old woman said. She had known a spring-time when a
storm of wind and hail had shaken off the apple blossoms, and frosts had
touched the fruits one fall before she had been able to pick them.
"I will open my gate to the country people and to strangers," she said.
"I will open it also to Vertumnus if he is still willing to share my
orchard and my work."
As Pomona spoke, the old woman rose and her gray hair turned to the dark
locks of Vertumnus. Her wrinkles faded in the glow of his sunburned
cheeks. Her travel stained garments were replaced by Vertumnus' russet
gardening smock and her staff to his pruning fork. He seemed to Pomona
like the sun bursting through a cloud. She had never really seen him
before, having never looked at anyone except with the eyes of
selfishness. Vertumnus and Pomona began the harvesting together, and
they opened the gate wide to let in those who had need of sharing their
plenty.
Then the fauns danced in and made merry to the tunes that Pan played.
The dryads found new homes for themselves in the trunks of the trees,
and the seasons gave rain and sunshine in greater abundance than ever
before as these two pruned, and trimmed, and grafted the trees and vines
together.
Achelous, the river god, took his way past the orchard kingdom of Pomona
and Vertumnus and brought with him Plenty who was able to fill her horn
with gifts of fruit for all, apples, pears, grapes, oranges, plums, and
citrons until it overflowed. Ever since the October when Pomona opened
her gate and shared her apples, an orchard has been a place of beauty,
bounty, and play.
HOW PSYCHE REACHED MOUNT OLYMPUS.
Once upon a time there was a king of Greece who had three beautiful
daughters, but the youngest, who was named Psyche, was the most
beautiful of all. The fame of her lovely face and the charm of her whole
being were so great that strangers from the neighboring countries came
in crowds to enjoy the sight and they paid Psyche the homage of love
that was due to Venus herself. Venus' temple was deserted, and as Psyche
passed by the people sang her praises, and strewed her way with flowers
and wreaths.
Venus had a son, Cupid, who was dearer to her than any other being on
Mount Olympus or in the earth. Like every mother, Venus had great
ambitions for the future of her son, but she was not always able to
follow him, for Cupid had wings and a golden bow and arrows with which
he was fond of playing among mortals. What was Venus' wrath to discover
at last that Cupid had lost his heart to Psyche, the lovely maiden of
earth! It was like a fairy story in which a prince marries a peasant
girl and may not bring her home to the palace because of her mean birth.
Venus quite refused to recognize Psyche or award her a place in the
honored family of the gods.
Cupid and Psyche had a very wonderful earthly palace in which to live.
Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls of the
apartments of state were richly carved and hung with embroidered
tapestries of many colors. When Psyche wished food, all she had to do
was to seat herself in an alcove when a table immediately appeared
without the aid of servants and covered itself with rare fruits and rich
cakes and honey. When she longed for music, she had a feast of it played
by invisible lutes, and with a chorus of harmonious voices. But Psyche
was not happy in this life of luxury, for she had to be alone so much of
the time. Venus could not take Cupid away from her altogether, but she
allowed him to be with Psyche only in the hours of darkness. He fled
before the dawn.
There had been a direful prophecy in Psyche's family of which her
sisters had continually reminded her.
"Your youngest daughter is destined for a monster whom neither gods nor
men can resist," was the oracle given to the king, and the memory of it
began to fill Psyche's heart with fear. Her sisters came to visit her
and increased her fear. They asked all manner of questions about Cupid,
and Psyche was obliged to confess that she could not exactly describe
him because she had never seen him in the light of day. Her jealous
sisters began at once to fill Psyche's mind with dark suspicions.
"How do you know," they asked, "that your husband is not a terrible and
venomous serpent, who feeds you for a while with all these dainties that
he may devour you in the end? Take our advice. Provide yourself with a
lamp well filled with oil and tonight, when this villain returns and
sleeps, go into his apartment and see whether or not our prophecy is
true."
Psyche tried to resist her sisters, but at last their urging and her own
curiosity were too much for her. She filled her lamp, and when her
husband had fallen into his first sleep, she went silently to his couch
and held the light above him.
There lay Cupid, the most beautiful and full of grace of all the gods!
His golden ringlets were a crown above his snowy forehead and crimson
cheeks, and two wings whose feathers were like the soft white blossoms
of the orchard sprang from his shoulders. In her joy at finding no cause
for her fears, Psyche leaned over, tipping her lamp, that she might look
more closely at Cupid's face. As she bent down, a drop of the burning
oil fell on the god's shoulder. He opened his eyes, startled, and looked
up at Psyche. Then, without saying a word, he spread his wide wings and
flew out of the window.
Psyche tried to follow him, but she had no wings and fell to the ground.
For one brief moment Cupid stayed his flight and turned to see her lying
there below him in the dust.
"Foolish Psyche," he said, "why did you repay my love in this way? After
having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, could you
not trust me? I will inflict no further punishment upon you than this,
that I leave you forever, for love cannot live with suspicion." And with
these words Cupid flew out of Psyche's sight.
That was the beginning of the long road of trouble Psyche had to
follow. She wandered day and night, without food or rest, in search of
Cupid. One day she saw a magnificent temple set upon the brow of a lofty
hill and she toiled the long way up to it, saying to herself,
"Perhaps my love inhabits here."
When Psyche reached the top of the hill and entered the temple, she saw
heaps of corn, some in sheaves and others in loose ears, and there was
barley mingled with it. There were sickles and rakes and all the other
instruments of the harvest scattered about in great confusion as if the
reapers, at the end of the sultry day, had left them in this disorder.
In spite of her sorrow, Psyche could not bear to see this disarray and
she began trying to set the place in order. She worked so busily that
she did not see Ceres, whose temple it was, enter. Turning at last,
Psyche saw the goddess of the harvest, wearing her fruit trimmed
garments and standing at her side.
"Poor Psyche!" she said pityingly. "But it is possible for you to find a
way to the abode of the gods where Cupid has his home. Go and surrender
yourself to Venus and try by your own works to win her forgiveness and,
perhaps, her favor."
So Psyche obeyed this command of Ceres, although it took a great deal of
courage, and she travelled to the temple of Venus in Thebes where the
goddess received her in anger.
"The only way by which you can merit the favor of the gods, unfortunate
Psyche," she said, "is by your own efforts. I, myself, am going to make
a trial of your housewifely skill to see if you are industrious and
dilligent."
With these words Venus conducted Psyche to a storehouse connected with
her temple where there was an enormous quantity of grain laid up; beans,
lentils, barley, wheat and the tiny seeds of the millet which Venus had
stored to feed her pigeons.
"Separate all these grains," the goddess said to Psyche, "putting those
of the same kind in a pile, and see that you finish before evening."
Then she left Psyche who was in consternation at the impossible task
spread before her.
Psyche dipped her fingers into the golden heap gathering up a handful to
sort the grains, but it took her a long time and the grain lay about her
on every side like a yellow river. The grains she held were less than a
drop taken from its surface.
"I shall not be able to finish. I shall never see my husband again!"
Psyche moaned.
Still she worked on steadily and at last a little ant, a native of the
fields, crawled across the floor and took compassion on the toiling
Psyche. It was a king in its own domain and was followed by a host of
its little red subjects. Grain by grain, they separated the seeds,
helping to put them in their own piles, and when the work was
accomplished they vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
When evening came Venus returned, breathing odors of nectar and crowned
with roses, from a banquet of the gods. When she saw that Psyche's task
was done, she scarcely believed her eyes.
"You must have had assistance," she said. "To-morrow you shall try a
more difficult undertaking. Beyond my temple you will see a grassy
meadow which stretches along the borders of the water. There you will
find a flock of sheep with golden shining fleeces on their backs and
grazing without a shepherd. Bring me a sample of their precious wool
that you gather from each of the fleeces."
Psyche once more obeyed, but this was a test of her life as well as of
her endurance. As she reached the meadow, the river god, whispering to
her through the rushes, warned her.
"Do not venture among the flock while the sun shines on them," he told
her. "In the heat of the rising sun, the rams burn with a cruel rage to
destroy mortals with their sharp teeth. Wait until twilight, when you
will find their woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the
trees."
The compassion of the river god helped Psyche to do as Venus had
commanded her and she returned to the temple in the evening with her
arms full of golden fleece.
Still Venus was not satisfied.
"I have a third task for you," she told the weary Psyche. "Take this box
to the realm of Pluto and give it to Proserpine saying to her, 'My
mistress, Venus, desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in
tending her son whom Psyche burned she has lost some of her own.' And
make all possible haste, for I must use it before I appear next in the
circle of the gods on Mount Olympus."
Psyche felt that now her destruction was surely at hand. It was a
dangerous road that led to the dark, underground kingdom of Pluto and
there were deadly dangers on the way. But Psyche was finding a new
courage with each of the difficulties that she had to encounter, and she
set out with the box. She passed safely by Cerberus, Pluto's three
headed watch dog. She prevailed upon Charon, the ferryman, to take her
across the black river and wait for her while she begged Proserpine to
fill the box. Then she started back to the light again.
All would have gone well with Psyche if she had not grown curious. That
was why her road to the dwelling place of the gods was so long and
difficult. Psyche was always mixing up a little bit of earth with her
good intentions. Having come so far successfully with her dangerous
task, she wanted to open the box.
"I would take only the least bit of this beauty from Venus," Psyche
thought, "to make myself more fair for Cupid if I ever behold him
again."
So she carefully opened the box, but there was nothing in it of beauty
at all. It was a potion that caused Psyche to fall beside the road in a
sleep which seemed to have no waking. She did not stir, or breathe, or
remember.
It was there that love, in the form of Cupid found Psyche. He was healed
of his wound, and he could not bear her absence any longer. He flew
through a crack in the window of the palace of Venus and made his way to
earth and straight to the spot where Psyche lay. He gathered the deadly
sleep from her body and put it fast inside the box again. Then he
touched her lightly with one of his arrows and she woke.
"Again you have almost perished because of your curiosity," he said as
Psyche reached up her arms to him "but perform exactly this task which
my mother asked of you and I will attend to the rest."
Then Cupid, as swift as a bird flies, returned to Mount Olympus and
pleaded with Jupiter for a welcome for Psyche. Jupiter consented at last
to have this daughter of earth admitted to the family of the gods and
Mercury was sent to bring her and offer her the cup of ambrosial nectar
that would make her one of the immortals.
It is said that at the moment when Psyche completed her tasks and took
her departure for Mount Olympus a winged creature, the butterfly, that
had never been seen before on earth, arose from a garden and flew on
golden wings up toward the sun. So it was thought that the story of
Psyche was the story of the butterfly who bursts its gray house of the
cocoon and rises, with a new beauty and the power of wings, toward the
sky. And the Greeks had still another name for Psyche whom neither her
troubles or the sleep of Pluto could keep from the abode of the gods
when Love pleaded for her. They spoke of her as the Soul.
HOW MELAMPOS FED THE SERPENT.
There was a hollow oak tree in front of the house of Melampos in Greece
and inside it was a nest of serpents.
Melampos was a farmer, skilful in raising fruits and grains and full of
love for everything that lived out of doors. He would not so much as
crush an ant hurrying home to its hill with a grain of sand, and
although he did not particularly like snakes he saw no harm in these
that had made themselves a home in a tree that no one wanted.
"They will do us no hurt unless we disturb them," Melampos told his
servants. "Let them alone and perhaps, when the weather is warmer, they
will take their way off to the neighboring marsh."
But Melampos' servants were not so sure as he of the harmlessness of the
serpents.
"Our master is growing old and child like," they said to each other.
"The next time he drives to the city with a load of grain we will get
rid of the nest of vipers."
So that was what they did. In Melampos' absence they fired the nest of
the serpents with a torch and burned it up completely, as they thought.
But when Melampos returned that afternoon and sat down under his arbor
to rest and eat his supper of bread and grapes, he saw a pair of bright
black eyes peering up at him from the grass. Then he spied a round green
head raised above a long green body. It was one of the young serpents
that had not been hurt when the nest was burned and had come to the
master of the place for protection.
Melampos looked cautiously around to see that no one was watching him.
"If any of the servants see me, they will think me out of my senses," he
said to himself, "but I am sorry for this little creature and would
befriend it." Then, seeing that he was quite unobserved, Melampos broke
off a piece of his bread and threw the crumbs to the young serpent. It
devoured them to the last one and then glided off so silently that it
left no trail except a long line of gently moving grasses.
The next day the serpent came and the next, always hungry and always
lifting its little head and looking at Melampos in its odd, bright way.
One day as Melampos broke his bread as usual to share it with the
serpent, he heard a voice speaking to him.
"The gods have been watching your kindness, Melampos," it said, "and
have rewarded you in the way you will like best. They have given you the
power of understanding the tongues of the wild."
Melampos looked all about him, but there was not another mortal within
sight. Then his eyes caught those of the serpent and he suddenly
realized that it had been its voice which he had heard. That was the
beginning of strange experiences for Melampos upon whom the gods had
conferred so wonderful a gift.
The serpent never returned after that day, but that very same evening a
tree toad spoke to Melampos.
"Water your olive trees well around the roots, Melampos," it said, "for
there is a season of drought approaching."
That was an excellent warning, because the farmer had a grove of young
trees that needed very tender care. Melampos sprayed the trees and
soaked the roots and felt very thankful to the tree toad for its advice.
After a few days of dry weather Melampos was on his way to the city when
a grasshopper spoke to him from the side of the road.