Chapter I

Once a fowler, young and artless, To the quiet greenwood came; Full of skill was he and heartless In pursuit of feathered game. And betimes he chanced to see Eros perching in a tree.

"What strange bird is that, I wonder?" Thought the youth, and spread his snare; Eros, chuckling at the blunder, Gayly scampered here and there. Do his best, the simple clod Could not snare the agile god!

Blubbering, to his aged master Went the fowler in dismay, And confided his disaster With that curious bird that day; "Master, hast thou ever heard Of so ill-disposed a bird?"

"Heard of him? Aha, most truly!" Quoth the master with a smile; "And thou too, shall know him duly-- Thou art young, but bide awhile, And old Eros will not fly From thy presence by and by!

"For when thou art somewhat older That same Eros thou didst see, More familiar grown and bolder, Shall become acquaint with thee; And when Eros comes thy way Mark my word, he comes to stay!"