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YOUNG FOLKS' TREASURY
In 12 Volumes
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor
EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Associate Editor
VOLUME II: MYTHS AND LEGENDARY HEROES
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor
New York
The University Society Inc.
Publishers
[Illustration: JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT.]
PARTIAL LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS, ASSISTANT EDITORS AND ADVISERS
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor
EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Associate Editor
NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, President Columbia University.
WILLIAM R. HARPER, Late President Chicago University.
HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT, Ex-President of the United States.
HON. GROVER CLEVELAND, Late President of the United States.
JAMES CARDINAL GIBBONS, American Roman Catholic prelate.
ROBERT C. OGDEN, Partner of John Wanamaker.
HON. GEORGE F. HOAR, Late Senator from Massachusetts.
EDWARD W. BOK, Editor "Ladies' Home Journal."
HENRY VAN DYKE, Author, Poet, and Professor of English
Literature, Princeton University.
LYMAN ABBOTT, Author, Editor of "The Outlook."
CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS, Writer of Animal Stories.
JACOB A. RIIS, Author and Journalist.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr., English Professor at Union College.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, Late Author and Creator of "Uncle Remus."
GEORGE GARY EGGLESTON, Novelist and Journalist.
RAY STANNARD BAKER, Author and Journalist.
WILLIAM BLAIKIE, Author of "How to Get Strong and How to Stay So."
WILLIAM DAVENPORT HULBERT, Writer of Animal Stories.
JOSEPH JACOBS, Folklore Writer and Editor of the "Jewish
Encyclopedia."
MRS. VIRGINIA TERHUNE ("Marion Harland"), Author of "Common Sense in
the Household," etc.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER, Author of "The Art of Home-Making," etc.
SARAH K. BOLTON, Biographical Writer.
ELLEN VELVIN, Writer of Animal Stories.
REV. THEODORE WOOD, F.E.S., Writer on Natural History.
W.J. BALTZELL, Editor of "The Musician."
HERBERT T. WADE, Editor and Writer on Physics.
JOHN H. CLIFFORD, Editor and Writer.
ERNEST INGERSOLL, Naturalist and Author.
DANIEL E. WHEELER, Editor and Writer.
IDA PRENTICE WHITCOMB, Author of "Young People's Story of Music,"
"Heroes of History," etc.
MARK HAMBOURG, Pianist and Composer.
MME. BLANCHE MARCHESI, Opera Singer and Teacher.
CONTENTS
Introduction
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
Baucis and Philemon
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Pandora
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Midas
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Cadmus
Adapted by C.E. Smith
Proserpina
Adapted by C.E. Smith
The Story of Atalanta
Adapted by Anna Klingensmith
Pyramus and Thisbe
Adapted by Alice Zimmern
Orpheus
Adapted by Alice Zimmern
MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA
Baldur
Adapted from A. and E. Keary's version
Thor's Adventure among the Jotuns
Adapted by Julia Goddard
The Apples of Idun
Adapted by Hamilton Wright Mabie
The Gifts of the Dwarfs
The Punishment of Loki
Adapted from A. and E. Keary's version
MYTHS OF INDIA
The Blind Man, The Deaf Man, and the Donkey
Adapted by M. Frere
Harisarman
Why the Fish Laughed
Muchie Lal
Adapted by M. Frere
How the Rajah's Son Won the Princess Labam
Adapted by Joseph Jacobs
MYTHS OF JAPAN
The Jellyfish and the Monkey
Adapted by Yei Theodora Ozaki
The Old Man and-the Devils
Autumn and Spring
Adapted by Frank Kinder
The Vision of Tsunu
Adapted by Frank Kinder
The Star-Lovers
Adapted by Frank Kinder
MYTHS OF THE SLAVS
The Two Brothers
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko
The Twelve Months
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko
The Sun; or, the Three Golden Hairs of the Old Man
Vésèvde
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko
A MYTH OF AMERICA
Hiawatha
Adapted from H.R. Schoolcraft's version
HEROES OF GREECE AND ROME
Perseus
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Odysseus
Adapted by Jeanie Lang
The Argonauts
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Theseus
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Hercules
Adapted by Thomas Cartwright
The Perilous Voyage of Æneas
Adapted by Alice Zimmern
How Horatius Held the Bridge
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
How Cincinnatus Saved Rome
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
HEROES OF GREAT BRITAIN
Beowulf
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
How King Arthur Conquered Rome
Adapted by E. Edwardson
Sir Galahad and the Sacred Cup
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
The Passing of Arthur
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
Robin Hood
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
Guy of Warwick
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
Whittington and His Cat
Adapted by Ernest Rhys
Tom Hickathrift
Adapted by Ernest Rhys
HEROES OF SCANDINAVIA
The Story of Frithiof
Adapted by Julia Goddard
Havelok
Adapted by George W. Cox and E.H. Jones
The Vikings
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
HERO OF GERMANY
Siegfried
Adapted by Mary Macgregor
HERO OF FRANCE
Roland
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
HERO OF SPAIN
The Cid
Adapted by Robert Southey
HERO OF SWITZERLAND
William Tell
Adapted by H.E. Marshall
HERO OF PERSIA
Rustem
Adapted by Alfred J. Church
ILLUSTRATIONS
JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT (Frontispiece)
OUT FLEW A BRIGHT, SMILING FAIRY
HE CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS AND SPRANG INTO THE CHARIOT
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI
THE PRINCESS LABAM ... SHINES SO THAT SHE LIGHTS
UP ALL THE COUNTRY
HIAWATHA IN HIS CANOE
SO DANAE WAS COMFORTED AND WENT HOME WITH DICTYS
ORPHEUS SANG TILL HIS VOICE DROWNED THE SONG OF THE SIRENS
THEY LEAPT ACROSS THE POOL AND CAME TO HIM
THESEUS LOOKED UP INTO HER FAIR FACE
SIR GALAHAD
ROBIN HOOD IN AN ENCOUNTER
THE HERO'S SHINING SWORD PIERCED THE HEART OF THE MONSTER
WILLIAM TELL AND HIS FRIENDS
(Many of the illustrations in this volume are reproduced by special
permission of E.P. Dutton & Company, owners of American rights.)
INTRODUCTION
With such a table of contents in front of this little foreword, I am
quite sure that few will pause to consider my prosy effort. Nor can I
blame any readers who jump over my head, when they may sit beside kind
old Baucis, and drink out of her miraculous milk-pitcher, and hear
noble Philemon talk; or join hands with Pandora and Epimetheus in
their play before the fatal box was opened; or, in fact, be in the
company of even the most awe-inspiring of our heroes and heroines.
For ages the various characters told about in the following pages have
charmed, delighted, and inspired the people of the world. Like fairy
tales, these stories of gods, demigods, and wonderful men were
the natural offspring of imaginative races, and from generation
to generation they were repeated by father and mother to son and
daughter. And if a brave man had done a big deed he was immediately
celebrated in song and story, and quite as a matter of course, the
deed grew with repetition of these. Minstrels, gleemen, poets, and
skalds (a Scandinavian term for poets) took up these rich themes and
elaborated them. Thus, if a hero had killed a serpent, in time it
became a fiery dragon, and if he won a great battle, the enthusiastic
reciters of it had him do prodigious feats--feats beyond belief. But
do not fancy from this that the heroes were every-day persons. Indeed,
they were quite extraordinary and deserved highest praise of their
fellow-men.
So, in ancient and medieval Europe the wandering poet or minstrel
went from place to place repeating his wondrous narratives, adding
new verses to his tales, changing his episodes to suit locality or
occasion, and always skilfully shaping his fascinating romances. In
court and cottage he was listened to with breathless attention. He
might be compared to a living novel circulating about the country, for
in those days books were few or entirely unknown. Oriental countries,
too, had their professional story-spinners, while our American Indians
heard of the daring exploits of their heroes from the lips of old men
steeped in tradition. My youngest reader can then appreciate how myths
and legends were multiplied and their incidents magnified. We all know
how almost unconsciously we color and change the stories we repeat,
and naturally so did our gentle and gallant singers through the
long-gone centuries of chivalry and simple faith.
Every reader can feel the deep significance underlying the myths we
present--the poetry and imperishable beauty of the Greek, the strange
and powerful conceptions of the Scandinavian mind, the oddity and
fantasy of the Japanese, Slavs, and East Indians, and finally the
queer imaginings of our own American Indians. Who, for instance, could
ever forget poor Proserpina and the six pomegranate seeds, the death
of beautiful Baldur, the luminous Princess Labam, the stupid jellyfish
and shrewd monkey, and the funny way in which Hiawatha remade the
earth after it had been destroyed by flood?
Then take our legendary heroes: was ever a better or braver company
brought together--Perseus, Hercules, Siegfried, Roland, Galahad,
Robin Hood, and a dozen others? But stop, I am using too many
question-marks. There is no need to query heroes known and admired the
world over.
As true latter-day story-tellers, both Hawthorne and Kingsley retold
many of these myths and legends, and from their classic pages we have
adapted a number of our tales, and made them somewhat simpler and
shorter in form. By way of apology for this liberty (if some should
so consider it), we humbly offer a paragraph from a preface to the
"Wonder Book" written by its author:
"A great freedom of treatment was necessary but it will be observed
by every one who attempts to render these legends malleable in his
intellectual furnace, that they are marvelously independent of all
temporary modes and circumstances. They remain essentially the same,
after changes that would affect the identity of almost anything else."
Now to those who have not jumped over my head, or to those who, having
done so, may jump back to this foreword, I trust my few remarks will
have given some additional interest in our myths and heroes of lands
far and near.
DANIEL EDWIN WHEELER
MYTHS OF MANY COUNTRIES
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his wife Baucis sat
at their cottage door watching the sunset. They had eaten their supper
and were enjoying a quiet talk about their garden, and their cow, and
the fruit trees on which the pears and apples were beginning to ripen.
But their talk was very much disturbed by rude shouts and laughter
from the village children, and by the fierce barking of dogs.
"I fear," said Philemon, "that some poor traveler is asking for a bed
in the village, and that these rough people have set the dogs on him."
"Well, I never," answered old Baucis. "I do wish the neighbors would
be kinder to poor wanderers; I feel that some terrible punishment will
happen to this village if the people are so wicked as to make fun of
those who are tired and hungry. As for you and me, so long as we have
a crust of bread, let us always be willing to give half of it to any
poor homeless stranger who may come along."
"Indeed, that we will," said Philemon.
These old folks, you must know, were very poor, and had to work hard
for a living. They seldom had anything to eat except bread and milk,
and vegetables, with sometimes a little honey from their beehives, or
a few ripe pears and apples from their little garden. But they were
two of the kindest old people in the world, and would have gone
without their dinner any day, rather than refuse a slice of bread or a
cupful of milk to the weary traveler who might stop at the door.
Their cottage stood on a little hill a short way from the village,
which lay in a valley; such a pretty valley, shaped like a cup, with
plenty of green fields and gardens, and fruit trees; it was a pleasure
just to look at it. But the people who lived in this lovely place
were selfish and hard-hearted; they had no pity for the poor, and were
unkind to those who had no home, and they only laughed when Philemon
said it was right to be gentle to people who were sad and friendless.
These wicked villagers taught their children to be as bad as
themselves. They used to clap their hands and make fun of poor
travelers who were tramping wearily from one village to another, and
they even taught the dogs to snarl and bark at strangers if their
clothes were shabby. So the village was known far and near as an
unfriendly place, where neither help nor pity was to be found.
What made it worse, too, was that when rich people came in their
carriages, or riding on fine horses, with servants to attend to them,
the village people would take off their hats and be very polite and
attentive: and if the children were rude they got their ears boxed;
as to the dogs--if a single dog dared to growl at a rich man he was
beaten and then tied up without any supper.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke sadly when he heard
the shouts of the children, and the barking of the dogs, at the far
end of the village street.
He and Baucis sat shaking their heads while the noise came nearer and
nearer, until they saw two travelers coming along the road on foot.
A crowd of rude children were following them, shouting and throwing
stones, and several dogs were snarling at the travelers' heels.
They were both very plainly dressed, and looked as if they might not
have enough money to pay for a night's lodging.
"Come, wife," said Philemon, "let us go and meet these poor people and
offer them shelter."
"You go," said Baucis, "while I make ready some supper," and she
hastened indoors.
Philemon went down the road, and holding out his hand to the two men,
he said, "Welcome, strangers, welcome."
"Thank you," answered the younger of the two travelers. "Yours is a
kind welcome, very different from the one we got in the village; pray
why do you live in such a bad place?"
"I think," answered Philemon, "that Providence put me here just to
make up as best I can for other people's unkindness."
The traveler laughed heartily, and Philemon was glad to see him in
such good spirits. He took a good look at him and his companion. The
younger man was very thin, and was dressed in an odd kind of way.
Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak which was wrapped
tightly about him; and he had a cap on his head, the brim of which
stuck out over both ears. There was something queer too about his
shoes, but as it was getting dark, Philemon could not see exactly what
they were like.
One thing struck Philemon very much, the traveler was so wonderfully
light and active that it seemed as if his feet were only kept close to
the ground with difficulty. He had a staff in his hand which was the
oddest-looking staff Philemon had seen. It was made of wood and had a
little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes cut into the wood were
twisted round the staff, and these were so well carved that Philemon
almost thought he could see them wriggling.
The older man was very tall, and walked calmly along, taking no notice
either of naughty children or yelping dogs.
When they reached the cottage gate, Philemon said, "We are very poor
folk, but you are welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard. My wife
Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper."
They sat down on the bench, and the younger stranger let his staff
fall as he threw himself down on the grass, and then a strange thing
happened. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own
accord, and it opened a little pair of wings and half-hopped,
half-flew and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.
Philemon was so amazed that he feared he had been dreaming, but before
he could ask any questions, the elder stranger said: "Was there not a
lake long ago covering the spot where the village now stands?"
"Never in my day," said old Philemon, "nor in my father's, nor my
grandfather's: there were always fields and meadows just as there are
now, and I suppose there always will be."
"That I am not so sure of," replied the stranger. "Since the people in
that village have forgotten how to be loving and gentle, maybe it were
better that the lake should be rippling over the cottages again," and
he looked very sad and stern.
He was a very important-looking man, Philemon felt, even though his
clothes were old and shabby; maybe he was some great learned stranger
who did not care at all for money or clothes, and was wandering about
the world seeking wisdom and knowledge. Philemon was quite sure he
was not a common person. But he talked so kindly to Philemon, and
the younger traveler made such funny remarks, that they were all
constantly laughing.
"Pray, my young friend, what is your name?" Philemon asked.
"Well," answered the younger man, "I am called Mercury, because I am
so quick."
"What a strange name!" said Philemon; "and your friend, what is he
called?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell you that," said Mercury, "no other
voice is loud enough."
Philemon was a little confused at this answer, but the stranger looked
so kind and friendly that he began to tell them about his good old
wife, and what fine butter and cheese she made, and how happy they
were in their little garden; and how they loved each other very dearly
and hoped they might live together till they died. And the stern
stranger listened with a sweet smile on his face.
Baucis had now got supper ready; not very much of a supper, she told
them. There was only half a brown loaf and a bit of cheese, a pitcher
with some milk, a little honey, and a bunch of purple grapes. But she
said, "Had we only known you were coming, my goodman and I would have
gone without anything in order to give you a better supper."
"Do not trouble," said the elder stranger kindly. "A hearty welcome
is better than the finest of food, and we are so hungry that what you
have to offer us seems a feast." Then they all went into the cottage.
And now I must tell you something that will make your eyes open. You
remember that Mercury's staff was leaning against the cottage wall?
Well, when its owner went in at the door, what should this wonderful
staff do but spread its little wings and go hop-hop, flutter-flutter
up the steps; then it went tap-tap across the kitchen floor and did
not stop till it stood close behind Mercury's chair. No one noticed
this, as Baucis and her husband were too busy attending to their
guests.
Baucis filled up two bowls of milk from the pitcher, while her husband
cut the loaf and the cheese. "What delightful milk, Mother Baucis,"
said Mercury, "may I have some more? This has been such a hot day that
I am very thirsty."
"Oh dear, I am so sorry and ashamed," answered Baucis, "but the truth
is there is hardly another drop of milk in the pitcher."
"Let me see," said Mercury, starting up and catching hold of the
handles, "why here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." He poured
out a bowlful for himself and another for his companion. Baucis could
scarcely believe her eyes. "I suppose I must have made a mistake," she
thought, "at any rate the pitcher must be empty now after filling both
bowls twice over."
"Excuse me, my kind hostess," said Mercury in a little while, "but
your milk is so good that I should very much like another bowlful."
Now Baucis was perfectly sure that the pitcher was empty, and in order
to show Mercury that there was not another drop in it, she held it
upside down over his bowl. What was her surprise when a stream of
fresh milk fell bubbling into the bowl and overflowed on to the table,
and the two snakes that were twisted round Mercury's staff stretched
out their heads and began to lap it up.
"And now, a slice of your brown loaf, pray Mother Baucis, and a little
honey," asked Mercury.
Baucis handed the loaf, and though it had been rather a hard and dry
loaf when she and her husband ate some at tea-time, it was now as soft
and new as if it had just come from the oven. As to the honey, it had
become the color of new gold and had the scent of a thousand flowers,
and the small grapes in the bunch had grown larger and richer, and
each one seemed bursting with ripe juice.
Although Baucis was a very simple old woman, she could not help
thinking that there was something rather strange going on. She sat
down beside Philemon and told him in a whisper what she had seen.
"Did you ever hear anything so wonderful?" she asked.
"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "I fear you have
been in a dream, my dear old wife."
He knew Baucis could not say what was untrue, but he thought that she
had not noticed how much milk there had really been in the pitcher
at first. So when Mercury once more asked for a little milk, Philemon
rose and lifted the pitcher himself. He peeped in and saw that there
was not a drop in it; then all at once a little white fountain gushed
up from the bottom, and the pitcher was soon filled to the brim
with delicious milk.
Philemon was so amazed that he nearly let the jug fall. "Who are ye,
wonder-working strangers?" he cried.
"Your guests, good Philemon, and your friends," answered the elder
traveler, "and may the pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and
yourself any more than for the hungry traveler."
The old people did not like to ask any more questions; they gave the
guests their own sleeping-room, and then they lay down on the hard
floor in the kitchen. It was long before they fell asleep, not because
they thought how hard their bed was, but because there was so much to
whisper to each other about the wonderful strangers and what they had
done.
They all rose with the sun next morning. Philemon begged the visitors
to stay a little till Baucis should milk the cow and bake some bread
for breakfast. But the travelers seemed to be in a hurry and wished
to start at once, and they asked Baucis and Philemon to go with them a
short distance to show them the way.
So they all four set out together, and Mercury was so full of fun and
laughter, and made them feel so happy and bright, that they would have
been glad to keep him in their cottage every day and all day long.
"Ah me," said Philemon, "if only our neighbors knew what a pleasure
it was to be kind to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs and
never allow the children to fling another stone."
"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so," said Baucis, "and I
mean to go this very day and tell some of them how wicked they are."
"I fear," said Mercury, smiling, "that you will not find any of them
at home."
The old people looked at the elder traveler and his face had grown
very grave and stern. "When men do not feel towards the poorest
stranger as if he were a brother," he said, in a deep, grave voice,
"they are not worthy to remain on the earth, which was made just to be
the home for the whole family of the human race of men and women and
children."
"And, by the bye," said Mercury, with a look of fun and mischief in
his eyes, "where is this village you talk about? I do not see anything
of it."
Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where at sunset only
the day before they had seen the trees and gardens, and the houses,
and the streets with the children playing in them. But there was no
longer any sign of the village. There was not even a valley. Instead,
they saw a broad lake which filled all the great basin from brim to
brim, and whose waters glistened and sparkled in the morning sun.
The village that had been there only yesterday was now gone!
"Alas! what has become of our poor neighbors?" cried the kind-hearted
old people.
"They are not men and women any longer," answered the elder traveler,
in a deep voice like distant thunder. "There was no beauty and no use
in lives such as theirs, for they had no love for one another, and no
pity in their hearts for those who were poor and weary. Therefore the
lake that was here in the old, old days has flowed over them, and they
will be men and women no more."
"Yes," said Mercury, with his mischievous smile, "these foolish people
have all been changed into fishes because they had cold blood which
never warmed their hearts, just as the fishes have."
"As for you, good Philemon, and you, kind Baucis," said the elder
traveler, "you, indeed, gave a hearty welcome to the homeless
strangers. You have done well, my dear old friends, and whatever wish
you have most at heart will be granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then I do not know
which spoke, but it seemed as if the voice came from them both. "Let
us live together while we live, and let us die together, at the same
time, for we have always loved one another."
"Be it so," said the elder stranger, and he held out his hands as if
to bless them. The old couple bent their heads and fell on their knees
to thank him, and when they lifted their eyes again, neither Mercury
nor his companion was to be seen.
So Philemon and Baucis returned to the cottage, and to every traveler
who passed that way they offered a drink of milk from the wonderful
pitcher, and if the guest was a kind, gentle soul, he found the milk
the sweetest and most refreshing he had ever tasted. But if a cross,
bad-tempered fellow took even a sip, he found the pitcher full of sour
milk, which made him twist his face with dislike and disappointment.
Baucis and Philemon lived a great, great many years and grew very
old. And one summer morning when their friends came to share their
breakfast, neither Baucis nor Philemon was to be found!
The guests looked everywhere, and all in vain. Then suddenly one of
them noticed two beautiful trees in the garden, just in front of
the door. One was an oak tree and the other a linden tree, and their
branches were twisted together so that they seemed to be embracing.
No one had ever seen these trees before, and while they were all
wondering how such fine trees could possibly have grown up in a single
night, there came a gentle wind which set the branches moving, and
then a mysterious voice was heard coming from the oak tree. "I am
old Philemon," it said; and again another voice whispered, "And I am
Baucis." And the people knew that the good old couple would live for a
hundred years or more in the heart of these lovely trees. And oh, what
a pleasant shade they flung around! Some kind soul built a seat under
the branches, and whenever a traveler sat down to rest he heard a
pleasant whisper of the leaves over his head, and he wondered why the
sound should seem to say, "Welcome, dear traveler, welcome."
PANDORA
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
Long, long ago, when this old world was still very young, there lived
a child named Epimetheus. He had neither father nor mother, and to
keep him company, a little girl, who was fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him and be his
playfellow. This child's name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she came to the cottage where
Epimetheus lived, was a great wooden box. "What have you in that box,
Epimetheus?" she asked.
"That is a secret," answered Epimetheus, "and you must not ask any
questions about it; the box was left here for safety, and I do not
know what is in it."
"But who gave it you?" asked Pandora, "and where did it come from?"
"That is a secret too," answered Epimetheus.
"How tiresome!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way;" and she looked very cross.
"Come along, and let us play games," said Epimetheus; "do not let
us think any more about it;" and they ran out to play with the other
children, and for a while Pandora forgot all about the box.
But when she came back to the cottage, there it was in front of her,
and instead of paying no heed to it, she began to say to herself:
"Whatever can be inside it? I wish I just knew who brought it! Dear
Epimetheus, do tell me; I know I cannot be happy till you tell me all
about it."
Then Epimetheus grew a little angry. "How can I tell you, Pandora?" he
said, "I do not know any more than you do."
"Well, you could open it," said Pandora, "and we could see for
ourselves!"
But Epimetheus looked so shocked at the very idea of opening a box
that had been given to him in trust, that Pandora saw she had better
not suggest such a thing again.
"At least you can tell me how it came here," she said.
"It was left at the door," answered Epimetheus, "just before you came,
by a queer person dressed in a very strange cloak; he had a cap that
seemed to be partly made of feathers; it looked exactly as if he had
wings."
"What kind of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.
"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw," cried Epimetheus: "it
seemed like two serpents twisted round a stick."
"I know him," said Pandora thoughtfully. "It was Mercury, and he
brought me here as well as the box. I am sure he meant the box for me,
and perhaps there are pretty clothes in it for us to wear, and toys
for us both to play with."
"It may be so," answered Epimetheus, turning away; "but until Mercury
comes back and tells us that we may open it, neither of us has any
right to lift the lid;" and he went out of the cottage.
"What a stupid boy he is!" muttered Pandora, "I do wish he had a
little more spirit." Then she stood gazing at the box. She had called
it ugly a hundred times, but it was really a very handsome box, and
would have been an ornament in any room.
It was made of beautiful dark wood, so dark and so highly polished
that Pandora could see her face in it. The edges and the corners were
wonderfully carved. On these were faces of lovely women, and of the
prettiest children, who seemed to be playing among the leaves and
flowers. But the most beautiful face of all was one which had a wreath
of flowers about its brow. All around it was the dark, smooth-polished
wood with this strange face looking out from it, and some days Pandora
thought it was laughing at her, while at other times it had a very
grave look which made her rather afraid.
The box was not fastened with a lock and key like most boxes, but with
a strange knot of gold cord. There never was a knot so queerly
tied; it seemed to have no end and no beginning, but was twisted so
cunningly, with so many ins and outs, that not even the cleverest
fingers could undo it.
Pandora began to examine the knot just to see how it was made. "I
really believe," she said to herself, "that I begin to see how it is
done. I am sure I could tie it up again after undoing it. There could
be no harm in that; I need not open the box even if I undo the knot."
And the longer she looked at it, the more she wanted just to try.
So she took the gold cord in her fingers and examined it very
closely. Then she raised her head, and happening to glance at the
flower-wreathed face, she thought it was grinning at her. "I wonder
whether it is smiling because I am doing wrong," thought Pandora, "I
have a good mind to leave the box alone and run away."
But just at that moment, as if by accident, she gave the knot a little
shake, and the gold cord untwisted itself as if by magic, and there
was the box without any fastening.
"This is the strangest thing I have ever known," said Pandora, rather
frightened, "What will Epimetheus say? How can I possibly tie it up
again?"
She tried once or twice, but the knot would not come right. It had
untied itself so suddenly she could not remember in the least how the
cord had been twisted together. So there was nothing to be done but to
let the box remain unfastened until Epimetheus should come home.
"But," thought Pandora; "when he finds the knot untied he will know
that I have done it; how shall I ever make him believe that I have not
looked into the box?" And then the naughty thought came into her head
that, as Epimetheus would believe that she had looked into the box,
she might just as well have a little peep.
She looked at the face with the wreath, and it seemed to smile at her
invitingly, as much as to say: "Do not be afraid, what harm can there
possibly be in raising the lid for a moment?" And then she thought
she heard voices inside, tiny voices that whispered: "Let us out, dear
Pandora, do let us out; we want very much to play with you if you will
only let us out?"
"What can it be?" said Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?
Yes, I must just see, only one little peep and the lid will be shut
down as safely as ever. There cannot really be any harm in just one
little peep."
All this time Epimetheus had been playing with the other children in
the fields, but he did not feel happy. This was the first time he had
played without Pandora, and he was so cross and discontented that the
other children could not think what was the matter with him. You see,
up to this time everybody in the world had always been happy, no one
had ever been ill, or naughty, or miserable; the world was new and
beautiful, and the people who lived in it did not know what trouble
meant. So Epimetheus could not understand what was the matter with
himself, and he stopped trying to play games and went back to Pandora.
On the way home he gathered a bunch of lovely roses, and lilies, and
orange-blossoms, and with these he made a wreath to give Pandora, who
was very fond of flowers. He noticed there was a great black cloud in
the sky, which was creeping nearer and nearer to the sun, and just as
Ejpimetheus reached the cottage door the cloud went right over the sun
and made everything look dark and sad.
Epimetheus went in quietly, for he wanted to surprise Pandora with the
wreath of flowers. And what do you think he saw? The naughty little
girl had put her hand on the lid of the box and was just going to open
it. Epimetheus saw this quite well, and if he had cried out at once it
would have given Pandora such a fright she would have let go the lid.
But Epimetheus was very naughty too. Although he had said very little
about the box, he was just as curious as Pandora was to see what was
inside: if they really found anything pretty or valuable in it, he
meant to take half of it for himself; so that he was just as naughty,
and nearly as much to blame as his companion.
When Pandora raised the lid, the cottage had grown very dark, for the
black cloud now covered the sun entirely and a heavy peal of thunder
was heard. But Pandora was too busy and excited to notice this: she
lifted the lid right up, and at once a swarm of creatures with wings
flew out of the box, and a minute after she heard Epimetheus crying
loudly: "Oh, I am stung, I am stung! You naughty Pandora, why did you
open this wicked box?"
Pandora let the lid fall with a crash and started up to find out what
had happened to her playmate. The thunder-cloud had made the room so
dark that she could scarcely see, but she heard a loud buzz-buzzing,
as if a great many huge flies had flown in, and soon she saw a crowd
of ugly little shapes darting about, with wings like bats and with
terribly long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had
stung Epimetheus, and it was not long before Pandora began to
scream with pain and fear. An ugly little monster had settled on
her forehead, and would have stung her badly had not Epimetheus run
forward and brushed it away.
Now I must tell you that these ugly creatures with stings, which had
escaped from the box, were the whole family of earthly troubles. There
were evil tempers, and a great many kinds of cares: and there were
more than a hundred and fifty sorrows, and there were diseases in many
painful shapes. In fact all the sorrows and worries that hurt people
in the world to-day had been shut up in the magic-box, and given
to Epimetheus and Pandora to keep safely, in order that the happy
children in the world might never be troubled by them. If only these
two had obeyed Mercury and had left the box alone as he told them, all
would have gone well.
But you see what mischief they had done. The winged troubles flew out
at the window and went all over the world: and they made people so
unhappy that no one smiled for a great many days. It was very strange,
too, that from this day flowers began to fade, and after a short time
they died, whereas in the old times, before Pandora opened the box,
they had been always fresh and beautiful.
Meanwhile Pandora and Epimetheus remained in the cottage: they were
very miserable and in great pain, which made them both exceedingly
cross. Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back to
Pandora, while Pandora flung herself on the floor and cried bitterly,
resting her head on the lid of the fatal box.
Suddenly, she heard a gentle tap-tap inside. "What can that be?" said
Pandora, raising her head; and again came the tap, tap. It sounded
like the knuckles of a tiny hand knocking lightly on the inside of the
box.
"Who are you?" asked Pandora.
A sweet little voice came from inside: "Only lift the lid and you will
see."
But Pandora was afraid to lift the lid again. She looked across
to Epimetheus, but he was so cross that he took no notice. Pandora
sobbed: "No, no, I am afraid; there are so many troubles with stings
flying about that we do not want any more?"
"Ah, but I am not one of these," the sweet voice said, "they are no
relations of mine. Come, come, dear Pandora, I am sure you will let me
out."
The voice sounded so kind and cheery that it made Pandora feel better
even to listen to it. Epimetheus too had heard the voice. He stopped
crying. Then he came forward, and said: "Let me help you, Pandora, as
the lid is very heavy."
So this time both the children opened the box, and out flew a bright,
smiling little fairy, who brought light and sunshine with her. She
flew to Epimetheus and with her finger touched his brow where the
trouble had stung him, and immediately the pain was gone.
Then she kissed Pandora, and her hurt was better at once.
[Illustration: OUT FLEW A BRIGHT SMILING LITTLE FAIRY.]
"Pray who are you, kind fairy?" Pandora asked.
"I am called Hope," answered the sunshiny figure. "I was shut up in
the box so that I might be ready to comfort people when the family of
troubles got loose in the world."
"What lovely wings you have! They are just like a rainbow. And will
you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "for ever and ever?"
"Yes," said Hope, "I shall stay with you as long as you live.
Sometimes you will not be able to see me, and you may think I am dead,
but you will find that I come back again and again when you have given
up expecting me, and you must always trust my promise that I will
never really leave you."
"Yes, we do trust you," cried both children. And all the rest of their
lives when the troubles came back and buzzed about their heads and
left bitter stings of pain, Pandora and Epimetheus would remember
whose fault it was that the troubles had ever come into the world
at all, and they would then wait patiently till the fairy with the
rainbow wings came back to heal and comfort them.
MIDAS
ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH
Once upon a time there lived a very rich King whose name was Midas,
and he had a little daughter whom he loved very dearly. This King was
fonder of gold than of anything else in the whole world: or if he did
love anything better, it was the one little daughter who played so
merrily beside her father's footstool.
But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more he wished to be rich
for her sake. He thought, foolish man, that the best thing he could do
for his child was to leave her the biggest pile of yellow glittering
gold that had ever been heaped together since the world began. So he
gave all his thoughts and all his time to this purpose.
When he worked in his garden, he used to wish that the roses had
leaves made of gold, and once when his little daughter brought him
a handful of yellow buttercups, he exclaimed, "Now if these had only
been real gold they would have been worth gathering." He very soon
forgot how beautiful the flowers, and the grass, and the trees were,
and at the time my story begins Midas could scarcely bear to see or to
touch anything that was not made of gold.
Every day he used to spend a great many hours in a dark, ugly room
underground: it was here that he kept all his money, and whenever
Midas wanted to be very happy he would lock himself into this
miserable room and would spend hours and hours pouring the glittering
coins out of his money-bags. Or he would count again and again the
bars of gold which were kept in a big oak chest with a great iron lock
in the lid, and sometimes he would carry a boxful of gold dust from
the dark corner where it lay, and would look at the shining heap by
the light that came from a tiny window.
To his greedy eyes there never seemed to be half enough; he was quite
discontented. "What a happy man I should be," he said one day, "if
only the whole world could be made of gold, and if it all belonged to
me!"
Just then a shadow fell across the golden pile, and when Midas looked
up he saw a young man with a cheery rosy face standing in the thin
strip of sunshine that came through the little window. Midas was
certain that he had carefully locked the door before he opened his
money-bags, so he knew that no one, unless he were more than a mortal,
could get in beside him. The stranger seemed so friendly and pleasant
that Midas was not in the least afraid.
"You are a rich man, friend Midas," the visitor said. "I doubt if any
other room in the whole world has as much gold in it as this."
"May be," said Midas in a discontented voice, "but I wish it were much
more; and think how many years it has taken me to gather it all! If
only I could live for a thousand years, then I might be really rich.
"Then you are not satisfied?" asked the stranger. Midas shook his
head.
"What would satisfy you?" the stranger said.
Midas looked at his visitor for a minute, and then said, "I am tired
of getting money with so much trouble. I should like everything I
touch to be changed into gold."
The stranger smiled, and his smile seemed to fill the room like a
flood of sunshine. "Are you quite sure, Midas, that you would never be
sorry if your wish were granted?" he asked.
"Quite sure," said Midas: "I ask nothing more to make me perfectly
happy."
"Be it as you wish, then," said the stranger: "from to-morrow at
sunrise you will have your desire--everything you touch will be
changed into gold."
The figure of the stranger then grew brighter and brighter, so that
Midas had to close his eyes, and when he opened them again he saw
only a yellow sunbeam in the room, and all around him glittered the
precious gold which he had spent his life in gathering.
How Midas longed for the next day to come! He scarcely slept that
night, and as soon as it was light he laid his hand on the chair
beside his bed; then he nearly cried when he saw that nothing
happened: the chair remained just as it was. "Could the stranger have
made a mistake," he wondered, "or had it been a dream?"
He lay still, getting angrier and angrier each minute until at
last the sun rose, and the first rays shone through his window and
brightened the room. It seemed to Midas that the bright yellow sunbeam
was reflected very curiously from the covering of his bed, and he sat
up and looked more closely.
What was his delight when he saw that the bedcover on which his hands
rested had become a woven cloth of the purest and brightest gold!
He started up and caught hold of the bed-post--instantly it became a
golden pillar. He pulled aside the window-curtain and the tassel grew
heavy in his hand--it was a mass of gold! He took up a book from
the table, and at his first touch it became a bundle of thin golden
leaves, in which no reading could be seen.
Midas was delighted with his good fortune. He took his spectacles from
his pocket and put them on, so that he might see more distinctly what
he was about. But to his surprise he could not possibly see through
them: the clear glasses had turned into gold, and, of course, though
they were worth a great deal of money, they were of no more use as
spectacles.
Midas thought this was rather troublesome, but he soon forgot all
about it. He went downstairs, and how he laughed with pleasure when he
noticed that the railing became a bar of shining gold as he rested his
hand on it; even the rusty iron latch of the garden door turned yellow
as soon as his fingers pressed it.
How lovely the garden was! In the old days Midas had been very fond of
flowers, and had spent a great deal of money in getting rare trees and
flowers with which to make his garden beautiful.
Red roses in full bloom scented the air: purple and white violets
nestled under the rose-bushes, and birds were singing happily in the
cherry-trees, which were covered with snow-white blossoms. But since
Midas had become so fond of gold he had lost all pleasure in his
garden: this morning he did not even see how beautiful it was.
He was thinking of nothing but the wonderful gift the stranger had
brought him, and he was sure he could make the garden of far more
value than it had ever been. So he went from bush to bush and touched
the flowers. And the beautiful pink and red color faded from the
roses: the violets became stiff, and then glittered among bunches of
hard yellow leaves: and showers of snow-white blossoms no longer fell
from the cherry-trees; the tiny petals were all changed into flakes
of solid gold, which glittered so brightly in the sunbeams that Midas
could not bear to look at them.
But he was quite satisfied with his morning's work, and went back to
the palace for breakfast feeling very happy.
Just then he heard his little daughter crying bitterly, and she came
running into the room sobbing as if her heart would break. "How
now, little lady," he said, "pray what is the matter with you this
morning?"
"Oh dear, oh dear, such a dreadful thing has happened!" answered the
child. "I went to the garden to gather you some roses, and they are
all spoiled; they have grown quite ugly, and stiff, and yellow, and
they have no scent. What can be the matter?" and she cried bitterly.
Midas was ashamed to confess that he was to blame, so he said nothing,
and they sat down at the table. The King was very hungry, and he
poured out a cup of coffee and helped himself to some fish, but the
instant his lips touched the coffee it became the color of gold, and
the next moment it hardened into a solid lump. "Oh dear me!" exclaimed
the King, rather surprised.
"What is the matter, father?" asked his little daughter.
"Nothing, child, nothing," he answered; "eat your bread and milk
before it gets cold."
Then he looked at the nice little fish on his plate, and he gently
touched its tail with his finger. To his horror it at once changed
into gold. He took one of the delicious hot cakes, and he had scarcely
broken it when the white flour changed into yellow crumbs which shone
like grains of hard sea-sand.
"I do not see how I am going to get any breakfast," he said to
himself, and he looked with envy at his little daughter, who had dried
her tears and was eating her bread and milk hungrily. "I wonder if it
will be the same at dinner," he thought, "and if so, how am I going to
live if all my food is to be turned into gold?"
Midas began to get very anxious and to think about many things he
had never thought of before. Here was the very richest breakfast that
could be set before a King, and yet there was nothing that he could
eat! The poorest workman sitting down to a crust of bread and a cup of
water was better off than King Midas, whose dainty food was worth its
weight in gold.
He began to doubt whether, after all, riches were the only good thing
in the world, and he was so hungry that he gave a groan.
His little daughter noticed that her father ate nothing, and at first
she sat still looking at him and trying to find out what was the
matter. Then she got down from her chair, and running to her father,
she threw her arms lovingly round his knees.
Midas bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little daughter's
love was a thousand times more precious than all the gold he had
gained since the stranger came to visit him. "My precious, precious
little girl!" he said, but there was no answer.
Alas! what had he done? The moment that his lips had touched his
child's forehead, a change took place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full
of love and happiness, hardened and became a glittering yellow color;
her beautiful brown curls hung like wires of gold from the small head,
and her soft, tender little figure grew stiff in his arms.
Midas had often said to people that his little daughter was worth her
weight in gold, and it had become really true. Now when it was too
late, he felt how much more precious was the warm tender heart that
loved him than all the gold that could be piled up between the earth
and sky.
He began to wring his hands and to wish that he was the poorest man in
the wide world, if the loss of all his money might bring back the rosy
color to his dear child's face.
While he was in despair he suddenly saw a stranger standing near the
door, the same visitor he had seen yesterday for the first time in his
treasure-room, and who had granted his wish.
"Well, friend Midas," he said, "pray how are you enjoying your new
power?"
Midas shook his head. "I am very miserable," he said.