THE PURPLE FLOWERS
Apollo, the youngest and most beautiful of all the gods, dearly loved a
lad named Hyacinthus.
Ofttimes he would leave the other gods sipping nectar in Mount Olympus,
ofttimes he would forsake the many beautiful temples in which he was
worshipped on earth, that he might be free to wander through the woods
with his little friend.
For Hyacinthus was only a merry little lad, who loved to roam over hill
and dale, and when the fancy seized him to hunt in the woods.
Apollo was never happier than when he was with the boy. Sometimes he
would go hunting with him, and then Hyacinthus was merrier than ever,
for the world seemed more full of brightness when the Sun-god was by
his side. Sometimes the friends would walk together over hill and dale,
followed by the dogs Hyacinthus loved so well.
One day they had wandered far, and the little lad was tired, so he
flung himself down in a grassy meadow to rest, Apollo by his side. But
the Sun-god was soon eager for a game. He sprang to his feet, crying,
‘Hyacinthus, let us play at quoits before the shadows fall.’
Quoits were flat, heavy discs, and the game was won by the player who
could fling the quoits the farthest through the air.
Hyacinthus was ever willing to do as Apollo wished, and the game was
soon begun. After a throw of more than usual skill and strength the
friends laughed gleefully.
O but it was good to be alive in such a happy world, thought
Hyacinthus. And Apollo, as he looked at the merry face of the little
lad, rejoiced that he was not sitting in the cold marble halls of
Olympus, but was here on the glad green earth.
By and by while they still played, Zephyrus, the god of the south wind,
came fleeting by. He saw the Sun-god and his little playmate full of
laughter and of joy.
Then an ugly passion, named jealousy, awoke in the heart of the god,
for he too loved the little hunter Hyacinthus, and would fain have been
in Apollo’s place.
Zephyrus tarried a while to watch the friends. Once as Apollo flung his
disc high into the air, the Wind-god sent a gust from the south which
blew the quoit aside. He meant only to annoy Apollo, but Hyacinthus was
standing by, so that the quoit struck him violently on the forehead.
The lad fell to the ground, and soon he was faint from loss of blood.
In vain Apollo tried to staunch the wound; nothing he could do was
of any use. Little by little the boy’s strength ebbed away, and the
Sun-god knew that the lad would never hunt or play again on earth.
Hyacinthus was dead.
The grief of the god was terrible. His tears fell fast as he mourned
for the playmate he had loved so well.
At length he dried his tears and took his lyre, and as he played he
sang a last song to his friend. And all the woodland creatures were
silent that they might listen to the love-song of the god.
When the song was ended, Apollo laid aside his lyre, and, stooping,
touched with his hand the blood-drops of the lad. And lo! they were
changed into a cluster of beautiful purple flowers, which have ever
since been named hyacinths, after the little lad Hyacinthus.
Year by year as the spring sun shines, the wonderful purple of the
hyacinth is seen. Then you, who know the story, think of the days of
long ago, when the Sun-god lost his little friend and a cluster of
purple flowers bloomed upon the spot where he lay.