Deïanira was one of the most beautiful of princesses who lived in the
long ago times of the Greek gods and goddesses. It seemed as if all
the loveliness of the world in this, its story time, was hers. Her
hair was bright with the yellow of the first spring sunshine, and her
eyes were as blue as the skies of spring. Summer had touched
Deïanira's cheeks with the pink of rose petals, and the colors of the
autumn fruits shone in her jewels, crimson, and purple, and gold. Her
robes were as white and sparkling as the snows of winter, and all the
music of soft winds, and bird songs, and rippling brooks was in this
princess' voice.
Because of her beauty, and her goodness which even surpassed it,
princes came from all over the earth to ask Deïanira's father, Æneus,
if she might go home to their kingdoms and be their queen. But to all
these Æneus replied that to none but the strongest would he give the
princess.
There were many tests of these strangers' skill and strength in games
and wrestling, but one by one they failed. At last there were only two
left, Hercules, who could hold the sky on his great shoulders, and
Acheloüs, the river-god, who could twist and twine through the fields
and make them fertile. Each thought himself the greater of the two,
and it lay between them which should gain the princess, by his
prowess, to be his queen.
Hercules was great of limb, and of powerful strength. Beneath his
shaggy eyebrows, his eyes gleamed like coals of fire. His garment was
of lion skins, and his staff was a young tree. But Acheloüs was able
to slip between the huge fingers of Hercules. He was as slim and
graceful as a willow tree, and dressed in the green of foliage. He
wore a crown of water lilies on his fair hair, and carried a staff
made of twined reeds. When Acheloüs spoke, his voice was like the
rippling of a stream.
"The princess Deïanira shall be mine!" said Acheloüs. "I will make her
the queen of the river lands. The music of the waters shall be always
in her ears, and the plenty that follows wherever I flow shall make
her rich."
"No," shouted Hercules. "I am the strength of the earth. Deïanira is
mine. You shall not have her."
Then the river-god grew very angry. His green robe changed to the
black of the sea in a storm, and his voice was as loud as a mountain
cataract. Acheloüs could be almost as powerful as Hercules when he was
angered.
"How do you dare claim this royal maiden?" he roared, "you, who have
mortal blood in your veins? I am a god, and the king of the waters.
Wherever I take my way through the earth, grains and fruits ripen, and
flowers bud and bloom. The princess is mine by right."
Hercules frowned as he advanced toward the river-god. "Your strength
is only in words," he said scornfully. "My strength is in my arm. If
you would win Deïanira, it must be by hand-to-hand combat." So the
river-god threw off his garments and Hercules his lions' skins, and
the two fought for the hand of the princess.
It was a brave and valorous battle. Neither yielded; both stood firm.
Acheloüs slipped in and out of Hercules' mighty grasp a dozen times,
but at last Hercules' greater strength overpowered him. Hercules held
the river-god fast by his neck, panting for breath. But Acheloüs knew
magic arts which he could practise. He suddenly changed himself into a
long, slippery serpent. He twisted out of Hercules' grasp, and darted
out his forked tongue at him, showing his poisonous fangs.
Hercules was not yet outdone, though. He laughed in scorn at the
serpent. While he was still in his cradle, Hercules had strangled two
serpents, and he had met a Hydra with a hundred heads that he had cut
off. He was not in the least afraid of the river-god in the form of a
serpent, but gripped the creature by the back of its neck, ready to
strangle it.
Acheloüs struggled in vain to escape, and at last tried his magic arts
again. In a second the serpent had changed its form to that of a
bellowing ferocious bull. With its horns lowered, it charged upon
Hercules.
But Hercules was still unvanquished. He seized hold of the bull's
horns, bent its head, grasped its brawny neck, and throwing it down
buried the horns in the ground. Then he broke off one of the horns
with his iron strong hand, and held it up in the air, shouting,
"Victory! The princess is mine!"
Acheloüs returned to his own shape, and, crying with pain, ran from
the castle grounds where the combat had taken place, and did not stop
until he had plunged into a cooling stream.
It had been right that Hercules should triumph, for his was strength
of arm, not that of trickery. Deïanira stood by his side, and the
goddess of plenty came forward to give the conqueror his reward.
She took the great horn which Hercules had torn from Acheloüs' head
and heaped it high with the year's stores. Ripe grain, grapes, apples,
plums, nuts, pomegranates, figs, and all the other fruits of the
autumn filled the horn, and overflowed it. The wood-nymphs and the
water-nymphs came and twined the horn with vines, and crimson leaves,
and the last bright flowers of the year. Then they carried this horn
of plenty, high above their heads, and gave it to Hercules, and his
beautiful queen, Deïanira. It was the richest gift the gods could
make, the year's harvest.
And ever since that long-ago story time of the Greeks the horn of
plenty has stood for the year's blessing of us; it is full to
overflowing with the fruits of the harvest.