Chapter V: Part 5

He hardly believed that Bacchus would be able to grant the gift of such greedy power as this, and Bacchus wished that Midas had made a better choice. The god consented, though, and King Midas hurried off to test his gift alone so that he need not share it with anyone. He could not believe his eyes when he discovered that the twig of an oak, which he pulled from a branch, turned in his fingers to a bar of solid gold. He picked up a stone; it turned to a gold nugget. He touched a piece of sod; it became a mass of gold dust, thick and heavy. He snatched an apple from an orchard tree; it was as if he had robbed the gardens of Hesperides of one of their apples of gold. King Midas' joy knew no bounds. He hurried home and ordered his servants to prepare and serve a most costly and elaborate feast for him in celebration of his new found gift of gold.

He was hungry and could scarcely wait to eat; he almost snatched a piece of white bread to begin his meal. What was King Midas' surprise to see the bread harden into a slab of yellow metal in his hands. He lifted a goblet of creamy milk to his lips and it congealed into a thick, molten liquid of gold. It was so with whatever King Midas tried to eat; fowls, fruit, cakes, all were changed to gold before he had a chance to even touch the food with his lips. He was faced in the midst of all his wealth with death by starvation.

Raising his arms, shining with gold, in supplication to Bacchus, Midas begged that he might be saved from his own power of glittering destruction.

Although the gods were able to grant gifts, it was not possible for Bacchus to relieve a man from the dangers of his own use of a godly gift unless he, himself, helped. Bacchus was too kind hearted, however, to leave the foolish king to his fate so he consented to show him a way out of his dilemma.

"Go," he told Midas, "to the River Pactolus. Follow its winding course to the fountain head and then plunge your body and head in its waters to wash away your greed and its punishment."

It was a long and difficult journey for King Midas whose joints, even, creaked and were stiff with the golden metal into which they had changed, and who could find no food or any bed on the way that was not at once transformed to gold the instant he touched it. He was obliged to flee and hide from robbers who pursued this fugitive form of gold. At last, however, he came to the river, immersed himself in it, and had the relief of feeling his stiff, glittering body soften to its natural flesh again.

"I have had enough of the power of gold," Midas said when he returned to his court. "From this time I shall avoid all riches and live in the country."

So King Midas acquired a farm and took his court there, becoming a worshipper of Pan, the goat-footed god of the fields.

The god Pan was the merriest and almost the best beloved of all the gods, for his domain was the whole of the beautiful, wide outdoors. He was a wanderer of the mountains and valleys through all the seasons, peering into the grottos where the shepherds lived, amusing himself by chasing the nymphs, and bringing laughter and merriment wherever he went. The stump of a tree with its shaggy roots was Pan's pillow and the dusky leaves his only shelter.

No one on the earth was safe from the wiles of Pan. One summer day Diana, the huntress, was roaming through a forest when she heard a rustle of leaves in the path behind her. Turning, she saw the dark, mocking face of Pan and his horned head and hairy body. Diana fled and Pan followed.

Pan must have known it was a goddess whom he pursued, for Diana's hunting horn and her bow were of silver like the moon whose deity she was, but this did not stop him. On he went as Diana ran in terror from him until they came to the bank of a river. Here Pan overtook her and Diana had only time to call to her friends, the water-nymphs, for aid when the god clasped her in his arms.

But it was not Diana he had caught. He held a tuft of dripping water reeds in his hands through which the nymphs had allowed the goddess to escape. Pan held up the reeds and breathed a sigh through them because of the failure of his prank. The reeds gave out a lovely melody. Pan was charmed with the novelty and the sweetness of the music. He took some of the reeds of unequal lengths and, placing them side by side, he bound them together. So he made his pipes on which he learned to play tunes like the singing of birds and the babbling of brooks.

King Midas enjoyed his life in the country, and he made the acquaintance of the god Pan as he had that of Bacchus. He encouraged Pan in his tricks and flattered him by telling him how well he played his pipes.

"If you think me skilful, King Midas, it is possible that I may challenge Apollo in a contest of musical skill," Pan boasted.

"It would be an excellent idea," King Midas replied.

Midas should have known better and so should the frolicsome, reckless Pan. Apollo's lute was the musical instrument of the heavens and Pan's pipes could play only the tunes of earth, but Pan sent for Apollo and the god of light and song descended to a green field where the contest was to be held. Tmolus, the mountain god, was chosen to be the judge and at a signal Pan played the rustic melody on his pipes which was all he knew, and which greatly pleased King Midas who sat near to listen.

Then Apollo rose, crowned with laurel and wearing a robe of Tyrian purple that swept the ground. He struck the strings of his lyre and earth was filled with the music of the gods. The mountain-god swept away the trees that surrounded him so that he could listen better, and the trees themselves leaned toward Apollo in wonder and homage. When the music stopped, the strings still vibrated making the hills carry and echo the harmony to the skies. The mountain-god awarded the victory in the unequal contest to Apollo, but King Midas objected.

"I like better the music of Pan's pipes," he said. "I question the judgment of Tmolus."

Poor old Midas, still self centered and earthly! Apollo could not suffer such a depraved pair of ears to wear human form any longer. He touched Midas' ears and they began to lengthen, to move where they joined his head, and they grew heavy inside and outside. Midas had the ears of an ass!

Such a mortification for a king to have to bear! Indeed King Midas could not stand it alone, and he told the secret of his odd ears to the court hair-dresser in order to get his help in disguising them.

"But on pain of death do not tell anyone about my ears!" Midas commanded.

The hairdresser cut the King's hair so as to cover up the flopping ass's ears and he even fashioned a large turban to further conceal them, but he couldn't keep such a good secret. He went out into a meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the secret into it. Then he carefully covered it up.

In a very short time a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow in the exact spot where the hairdresser had buried the secret of King Midas' disgrace. As soon as the reeds had grown high enough to be played upon by the breezes they began to whisper the story of the king who had to finish his reign with a pair of asses' ears instead of his own, because of his self will. And it is said that the meadow reeds, blown by the wind, tell the story of King Midas to-day.

HOW MERCURY GAVE UP HIS TRICKS.

Apollo was in great trouble, for he had lost one of the herds of cattle he owned upon the earth. He knew the exact spot where he had left them the night before in a pasture of Arcadia, but when he rode out the next morning in his chariot of light with the first dawning of the day, the herd had disappeared. He searched the country for leagues about, but was unable to find a single trace of the cows. There was not even one hoof print to tell where they had gone.

As Apollo searched, he met a farmer of that country named Battus, whose eyes were fairly popping out of his head with wonder.

"Have you seen a straying herd of cattle in these parts, rustic?" Apollo asked him. "I have lost my best herd, and can find trace of neither hoof or hide of one of them."

"I saw strange doings last evening with a herd," Battus replied. "The night was dark and cloudy, and I went out to see if my flock of sheep was safely fastened in the fold. What I saw was like one of the tricks that Pan and his family of Satyrs plays, but I doubt if even they have such witching powers. I do believe that I must have dreamed it."

"Tell me what you saw with no further words," Apollo commanded the farmer impatiently.

"It was in the middle of the night," Battus explained. "As I passed a field where a fine herd of cattle was at rest I saw a child coming as swiftly and as surely over the grass as if he had wings. Once in a while he stopped and gathered a handful of broom straw, sorting it into bunches and tying it with dried grass. Presently the child came to the herd, and he tied a bunch of straw to the hoof of each cow. Then he drove the entire herd backward toward the cave of Pylos that you know is but a short distance from here. I followed him for part of the way, but I lost them, for the child went with the speed of the wind. I could not find their trail again, because they left not a single foot print. The brooms on their hoofs swept their track clean."

"A trick played on me, of the circle of the gods!" Apollo exclaimed, his eyes dark with anger and the rays of light he wore about his head sending off sparks of fire. And without so much as thanking Battus for his information, Apollo drove with the swiftness of lightning to the cave of Pylos. There was his herd feeding peacefully outside, and as Apollo forced his way into the cave, he saw the mischievous little boy who had been the cause of all the trouble.

He was still fast asleep and he was quite alone, for he had been born in that cave and knew no other home. Apollo shook him, and he opened a pair of the brightest, most roguish eyes that ever were seen in the earth or on Mount Olympus either. But when he spied Apollo, he closed them again, pretending that he was asleep, for, like most people who use their clever wits to make trouble for others, he didn't want to be found out. It was Mercury, and he had begun as early as this to play tricks on even the gods.

"What do you mean by driving away the herds of Arcadia to this lonely spot?" Apollo asked Mercury angrily. "Do you not know that the inhabitants of the country depend on them for food and that the gods, descending to earth, have need of cream and curds?"

But Mercury said not a word. He only shrugged his small shoulders and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut.

"Well, you shall be punished as you deserve," Apollo said, quite losing his patience, and he picked up Mercury, not very gently, and dropped him into his chariot. Then he drove off with him as fast as he could straight up to the throne of Jupiter, the king of the gods, on Mount Olympus.

It must have been quite an ordeal, particularly for a little boy like Mercury. Jupiter's throne was very high and quite blinded his eyes with its flashing gold and precious stones, and there were piles of thunderbolts close by all ready to throw if the need arose. And Jupiter himself wore a very dark frown when Apollo told him of the trick that Mercury had played.

"He shall be thrown--" Jupiter began, having in mind the punishment of denying Mercury the fellowship of the gods, but just then Mercury looked the king of the gods straight in the eyes, and Jupiter looked back. Then Jupiter started, for he saw that Mercury was, himself, a god. He might be, just then, a very naughty and young god, but it seemed as if he could do great deeds if only he were to make up his mind to. Jupiter called Mercury close to his throne and spoke to him.

"I, myself, have lost a cow," he told Mercury. "In fact she is not really a cow at all, but a beautiful maiden named Io, in disguise, and I understand that she lives upon the earth guarded by a watchman named Argus who has a hundred eyes. I should like to rescue the lovely Io and restore her to her proper form, but Argus never closes all of his eyes at once. He sleeps with as many as fifty of them open. Could you help me in this matter, do you suppose?"

Mercury stood up very straight as he said,

"I will try."

"You may need help, lad," Apollo said, forgetting his anger in his interest at this great adventure Mercury was going to attempt. "Take these," and he gave the young god some very useful presents, a golden divining rod made in a design of two twined serpents, and a pair of wings for his feet and a pair also for his cap.

As Mercury took the golden rod in his hand and fastened on his wings, he suddenly grew very tall and of almost the stature and pattern of the gods. He was their messenger now, and he knew that he had quicker wits and more shrewdness than any of them. He set out at once for the green fields of Arcadia where Io was pastured.

And there was old Argus guarding her with all his hundred eyes. He let the little heifer feed during the day, but when night came he tied a rough rope around her neck. She longed to stretch out her arms and implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to stretch and her voice was only a loud bellow that frightened even herself. Her father and her brothers fed her tufts of grass but did not know who she was. No wonder Mercury made haste to come to Io's help, laying aside his wings when he reached Argus and keeping only his wand. On the way he borrowed the pipes of Pan and brought a flock of sheep so that he appeared before Argus as only a wandering shepherd.

Argus listened to the music of the pipes with the greatest delight, for he had never heard them before. He called to Mercury as he strolled along.

"Come and take a seat by me on this stone," he begged. "There is no better grazing ground in all Arcadia than this."

So Mercury sat down beside Argus and played to him as long as he wished, and then he told him stories all the rest of the day until the sun had set and it was starlight and Io still grazed nearby without being tied. As the night wore on and Mercury still soothed Argus with his music and his tales, one by one his hundred eyes closed. At the first streak of dawn, the last eye was shut, and Mercury led Io away to Jupiter to be restored to her proper shape. He did something else too. He gave Juno all of Argus' eyes as a present, which pleased her so much that she put them for ornaments in the tail of her peacock. You may see them there to-day.

So Mercury was safe in the good graces of the gods. They began giving him unusual things to do, such as taking Pandora and her enchanted box down to the earth, carrying new suits of armor to the heroes, and taking off the chains which Mars, the clumsy god of war, had made for his own uses but had become bound with himself. These commissions were little more than fun for Mercury, and they made him feel so important that he began playing tricks again.

Almost all the gods had their own particular treasures which were, in a way, the marks of their authority and power. They grew to depend on these and to feel that they could not carry on their good works without them. And what did that rascal, Mercury, do but take Venus' jewelled girdle, Jupiter's sceptre, Mars' best sword, Vulcan's tongs, and Neptune's trident, and either hide them or try to make use of them himself for a while. Then he would manage to make up in some way for his mischief and smooth the whole matter over. It caused a great deal of anxiety and inconvenience among the gods and at last they sent Mercury down to earth once more to act as a guide to the heroes when they undertook dangerous adventures.

So Mercury took his winged way from one end of the world to the other. Whenever there was a hazard where skill and dexterity were needed as greatly as courage, Mercury was there. His journeys took him to the islands of Greece and to many foreign lands, and in these travels he never lost a chance to direct travellers and strangers who had lost their way.

Mercury was so busy that he forgot to play tricks on either the gods or men, and after a while he was accepted as a member in good standing of the family of the gods. The people of Greece had reason to worship Mercury because of something very helpful that he did for them.

There was a place in Greece where several roads met. It was really such a place as is known as the cross-roads now, and dangerous. A traveller on foot was not able to see the approach of a swiftly driven chariot, and a stranger might easily lose his his way, for the roads were not marked. Mercury set up the first sign post here at the cross-roads with plain directions telling where each one of the roads led.

The Greeks placed sign posts in honor of Mercury at every crossing of the roads after that, much more beautiful than ours because they were made in the form of marble pillars with a head of Mercury in his winged cap at the top. Every man who came to one of these first sign posts was asked to place a stone beside it as an offering to Mercury. The stones were greatly appreciated by this god of speed, for they helped in clearing the fields and making the roads easier to travel. Commerce and business were beginning. Loads of timber and grain and wool and fruits were carried in huge ox carts to the sea to be loaded in ships, and Mercury wanted good roads as a help to commerce.

Mercury turned out very well indeed, in spite of his bad beginning. It had depended upon how he used his wits, whether or not he helped the world or hindered it.

A LITTLE ERRAND GIRL'S NEW DRESS

Once upon a time there was a child of the gods named Iris who had many very interesting relatives. On her mother's side was the Pleiades family, daughters of old Atlas who held the earth on his shoulders and nymphs in the train of Diana, the huntress. Diana was to be seen in the silvery moon of the night sky, and the Pleiades surrounded her there, seven shining stars.

Iris had a most distinguished grandfather, Oceanus, the sea god. So she spent part of her time in the sky with the Pleiades and part in the ocean with her grandfather. It was very interesting to be in either place, for she loved the bright lights of the heavens, and the coral palaces of the sea made delightful places to explore.

All of her family loved Iris, and it is surprising that she was not spoiled with the amount of freedom she had, going here and there between earth and sky without any one saying no to her. But Iris had been well brought up, and she began when she was still quite small making herself just as useful as she possibly could.

At that time another child of the gods, Proserpine, had made a great deal of trouble by straying away from home and being kidnapped by Pluto. Her mother Ceres, the goddess of the fields, had to neglect her work for a long time as she searched for Proserpine, and the earth grew dry and barren in her absence. As Iris took her way from the sky to the sea and then back again, she felt sorry for the grain, the fruits and the flowers that were withering, and she did wish that she might help them.

One summer day Iris was paying a visit to Oceanus, her grandfather, and having a most beautiful time riding the crest of the waves on a frolicsome dolphin. The sea was covered with soft, light vapor and when it was time for Iris to go home to the sky in order to be there in time to help light the lamps of the Pleiades, she wrapped herself all about with this fleecy vapor. Still wearing it like a cloak, Iris reached the sky when a most unusual thing happened. It was so cool up there among the clouds that the sea foam turned to raindrops. Iris had to hurry away or she would have been wet through. Leaning over the edge of a cloud bank to see what was happening, she discovered that a shower of rain was falling to cool the earth and comfort it a little in its condition of drought.

Iris could travel with the speed of the wind from one end of the world to the other, and after that she busied herself searching for thirsty plants and trying to help them. She would descend to the ocean, a lake or a river, wherever she might be, and carry vapor that was full of water to the sky from which it dropped to earth to nourish all growing things. The farmers looked upon Iris as their most important help, and at last the news of her good works came to the ears of the gods on Olympus.

The gods had one messenger, Mercury, who wore wings on his heels and also on his cap. He was so swift that he was detailed to carry out the most difficult and delicate errands of the gods such as taking new suits of armor to the warriors of Greece, guiding the heroes, and even rescuing Mars, the god of war, when he once found himself bound by the chains he had designed for others. But one never knew exactly how Mercury would carry out a commission. He liked to linger with Pan in the woods and forests, giving as an excuse the care of young Bacchus, god of the vine, whom he must guard.

So the gods decided that they would have an errand girl who would live on Olympus and leave the habitation of the gods only when it was necessary to go to man as a guide and adviser.

That was the high trust which was given Iris by the gods. She had to use her own judgment to quite an extent as to when and where she was most needed by the dwellers of the earth, and how she could best help them. One day she noticed something happening in the kingdom of her grandfather.

A ship glided out of a harbor, the breeze playing among the ropes, and the seamen drew in their oars and hoisted their sails. The night drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind blew a gale. The captain gave orders to strengthen the ship and reef the sail but none of the sailors could hear his voice above the roar of the wind and the sea. The cries of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the breaking surf mingled with the thunder. Then the swelling sea seemed to be lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds, and then sink away to the bottom.

The ship could not stand the storm; it seemed like a wild beast charged upon by the spears of the hunter. There came a flash of lightning, tearing the darkness asunder, and illuminating all with its glare. It shattered the mast and broke the rudder, and the triumphant surge, rising over the ship, looked down on the wreck, then fell and crushed it to fragments. As the ship went down, the captain cried out in longing,

"Halcyone!"

Then Iris, who could see beyond and through the darkness, had a vision of the beautiful Queen Halcyone, of Sicily, who mourned her shipwrecked husband, the captain of this ship.

Without a moment's hesitation, Iris set out for the palace of Somnus, the king of sleep. It was a long and dangerous journey. Even Apollo did not dare to approach it at dawn, noon, or evening. It was set in a country where the light glimmered but faintly, and clouds and shadows rose out of the ground. No wild beast, or cattle, or tree moved by the wind, or any sound of voices broke the stillness, but the river Lethe flowed through it, rippling with a low kind of lullaby.

Iris approached the home of Somnus very timidly. All the way there were fields of poppies and the herbs from which Night distilled sleep to scatter over the darkened earth. There was no gate to the palace to creak as it opened, or any watchman. So this little errand girl of the gods went inside and made her way to the room where there was a throne of black ebony draped with dusky plumes and curtains. On the throne reclined Somnus, scarcely opening his eyes, and with his hair and beard covering him like a mantle.

Iris knelt before him,

"Somnus, gentlest of the gods, and soother of careworn hearts," she said, "will you not allow me to despatch a dream to Halcyone about her husband whom she mourns. See these dreams that lie around you, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore grains of sand! Can you not spare one beautiful dream for Halcyone?"

Somnus called his servant, Morpheus, who selected a dream and flew, making no noise with his wings, until he came to the city of Trachine where Halcyone could not sleep, but lay and tossed and wept in terror at the thought of what might have happened to her husband's ship. And at that moment Halcyone fell into a deep and happy dream in which she saw her husband. He stood beside her couch and spoke to her.

"The stormy winds have sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea," he told Halcyone, "let me not be alone. Arise and come with me!"

It was the most enlightening dream that Somnus could have sent. Halcyone left off her lamentations and implored the gods that she be allowed to join her husband, and the pitying gods turned them both into birds. They became the Halcyone gulls of the sea, riding the surf together, guarding their nest that floated upon the sea, and never again separated.

As soon as she felt sure that her errand was safely accomplished, Iris made haste to leave the domain of Somnus, for she felt its drowsiness creeping over her. She tried not to crush any of the sleep producing herbs as she went, and she was careful not to pick a single poppy. At last she was safely outside the boundaries, and then she could hardly believe what she saw, for a wonder had happened to her.

The gods had built her a long bridge that arched from the earth to the sky and over which she could go home to Olympus. It was made of colored stones, the ruby, the topaz, the emerald, the sapphire, and the amethyst. Row upon row the glistening stones of the arch made a bright path for Iris' feet. She passed along it, the light of the brilliant gems scintillating about her, and when she came to the abode of the gods, Iris found another surprise. There was a beautiful new dress waiting for her there.

It had the same colors as those of the precious stones that made the bridge, crimson, orange and yellow, green, blue, and violet and so marvellously blended that they seemed to be one pattern and one piece of brightness. There were wings that went with the dress, and when Iris put it on not even Juno had so beautiful a garment.

Iris wore her dress of colors as she took her way along her arched bridge from Olympus to earth and then back again. And her errands were those of help and courage and bright hope.

Have you guessed who she was? Why, of course you have, for you see her bridge of colors in the sky after a shower when the sun is shining through the clouds. Iris was the child of the gods who gave us the rainbow.

WHEN PROSERPINE WAS LOST

There were lilies and great blue violets growing wild on the banks of the lake in the vale of Enna. How could a little girl resist them, and particularly Proserpine whose mother was Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, and who had played and lived outdoors all her life? Proserpine had been racing through the forest with some of her boy and girls friends, farther than was wise.

"Don't go out of sight of our own home fields," Ceres had said that morning.

But here was Proserpine out of sight and sound of her playmates even. Violets like to grow in damp, dark places, and Proserpine had followed their blue trail until she was shut in the vale of Enna by the trees. She was quite alone and, suddenly, in danger.

There was the sound of racing chariot steeds and the crash of heavy wheels breaking the low branches and the bushes. A dark shadow made the vale darker than it had been before. A black chariot burst into sight, drawn by black horses and driven by a man who was dressed in black from head to foot. He was Pluto, the king of darkness, who had been waiting for a long time for this chance to kidnap fair little Proserpine. Her flowers fell from her apron in which she had been holding them; she screamed, but there was no one to hear her. Pluto dragged her into his grasp and threw her in the chariot. The horses dashed away, and Proserpine left the land of springtime for Pluto's dark kingdom beneath the earth.

Pluto shouted to his steeds, calling each by name, and giving them the length of the iron colored reins over their heads and necks. He reached the River Cyane which had no bridge, but he struck the waters with his trident and they rolled back, giving him a passage down through the earth to Tartarus where his throne was.

It was a prison place that they reached by way of a deep gulf, and its recesses were as far beneath the level of the earth as Mount Olympus was high above their heads. A strange sound of singing came to Proserpine from the depths of the cave where Pluto led her:

"Twist ye, twine ye! Even so,
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife
In the thread of human life."

And when Proserpine's eyes were a little more used to the dimness of the cave she saw three gray women, the Fates, with threads and shears, seated beside the throne and singing those words. One of them spun the thread of life, and another twisted its bright and dark lines together. But the third Fate cut the threads apart whenever she liked.

Other grim and terrible creatures met Proserpine's frightened gaze. The Furies had spread their couches there as had also Fear and Hunger. The Hydra hissed with each one of its nine heads and the Chimaeras breathed fire. There was a giant with a hundred arms, and Discord whose hair was bound with a fillet made of vipers.

"Take me back to the light. I want to go home. Oh, I beg of you, take me home!" Proserpine cried, but her words only echoed through the vaults of the kingdom of darkness. And when she tried to make her escape, her frail little hands were bruised from beating against the thick iron door that shut her in.

The next morning Aurora rode through the sky to put away the stars and touch the clouds with the pink color of the dawn. Looking down to the earth, she saw a goddess who had arisen long before the dawn and was hurrying up and down the earth, wringing her hands and with tears in her eyes. She wore a chaplet woven of the golden heads of the grain, and she was straight and strong and beautiful in her flowing robes of green, but she did not lift her eyes from the earth, so deep was her sorrow.

That evening Hesperus, who followed in Aurora's course each sunset to lead out the stars, saw the same goddess. Her robes were torn and stained from her travels and bedraggled with the dew. She was still weeping, and still searching. She was going to search, without rest, all night.

Many others saw this goddess in the days that followed. She was always roaming from daylight until dark, in the open, in sunlight and moonlight, and in falling showers. She was weary and sad. In such a plight a peasant, named Celeus, found her one day. He had been out in a field gathering acorns and blackberries, and binding bundles of sticks for his fire. The goddess sat there on a stone, too tired to go on.

"Why do you sit here alone on the rocks?" Celeus asked her. He carried a heavy load, but he stopped to try and succor her. "Come to my cottage and rest," he entreated her. "My little son is very ill, and we have only a most humble roof, but such as it is we will be glad to share it with you."

The goddess rose and gathered her arms full of crimson poppies. Then she followed Celeus home.

They found deep distress in the cottage, for the little boy was so ill as to be almost past hope. His mother could scarcely speak for her sorrow, but she welcomed the wandering goddess and spread the table for her with curds and cream, apples, and golden honey dripping from the comb. The goddess ate, but her eyes were on the sick child and when his mother poured milk into a goblet for him she mingled the juice of her poppies with it.

At last night came, and the peasants slept. Then the goddess arose and took the little boy in her arms. She touched his weak limbs with her strong, skilful hands, said a charm over him three times, and then laid him in the warm ashes of the fire.

"Would you kill my son? Wicked woman that you are to so abuse my hospitality!" the child's mother cried, awaking and seeing what the goddess had done.

But just then a strange thing happened. The cottage was filled with a splendor like white lightning, and a light seemed to shine from the skin of the goddess. A lovely perfume was scattered from her fragrant garments, and her hair was as bright as gold.

"Your son will not die, but live," she told the wife of Celeus. "He shall grow up and be great and useful. He shall teach men the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the cultivation of the soil."

"Who are you?" the woman asked in amazement as she saw the boy's white cheeks grow rosy with new life.

"I am Ceres," the goddess answered, "whose grief is greater than yours, for my child is lost. I search the earth for her, and never find her." With these words she was gone, as if she had wrapped herself in a cloud and floated away to meet the dawning of another day of her journey.

That was who this wanderer of the earth was, the immortal Ceres, who still did not care to live without her loved little daughter, Proserpine.

She was obliged to neglect her work of caring for the earth in her search for Proserpine, and disaster came to the land for many seasons. The cattle died and no plough broke the furrows. The seed failed to come up. There was too much sun and too much rain. The birds stole the harvest, little as there was, and seeds and brambles were the main growth. Even Arethusa, the nymph of the fountain, was about to die as Ceres, in her search, came to the banks of the River Cyane, where Pluto had passed with Proserpine to his own domain. Ceres had almost given up hope.

"Ungrateful soil that I have clothed with herbs and fruits and grains," she said. "You have taken my child and shall enjoy my favors no longer."

But Arethusa spoke:

"Do not blame the earth, Mother Ceres," she said. "It opened unwillingly to take your daughter. I come from the waters. I know them so well that I can count the pebbles in the bottom of this river, the willows that shade it and the violets on the bank. I was at play not long since in the river and Alpheus, the god of the stream, pursued me. I ran and he followed in an attempt to keep me from going back to my home in the fountain. As I tried to escape him, I plunged through the depths of the earth and into a cavern. While I passed through the bowels of the earth I saw your Proserpine. She was sad, but had no look of terror. Pluto had made her his queen in the realm of the dead. I have made my way back to tell you."

Ceres knew then that Proserpine was lost to her unless Jupiter helped in taking her away from the king of darkness. She summoned her chariot and rode to Mount Olympus, but even Jupiter had not complete power over Pluto.

"If Proserpine has taken food in Pluto's realm, the Fates will not allow her to return to earth," he told Ceres. "But I will send my swift messenger, Mercury, with Spring to try and bring her home."

In all that time Proserpine had eaten none of the rich food that Pluto had set before her, only six seeds of a red pomegranate as she had pressed the fruit to her lips to quench her thirst. But Spring, with all her strength that can bring new leaves and blooms from dead branches, with the help of Mercury, the god of the winged shoes, brought Proserpine the long way back to her mother for six months. The remaining six months of the year, one month for each pomegranate seed that she had eaten, Proserpine was doomed to spend as queen of Pluto's kingdom of darkness.

No one, and particularly not her mother, worried very much, though, about those months of darkness because of the wonders that Proserpine brought when she returned to earth. Every tree that she touched with her garments burst into green, and wherever her feet pressed the earth the grass and wild flowers appeared and spread. Ploughing and planting were begun again, and the new shoots of the corn pushed up through the ground.

Indeed, it seemed to Ceres that her other child, the corn, was telling the story of lost Proserpine. The seed of the corn that is thrust into the earth and lies there, concealed in the dark, is like Proserpine carried off by the god of the underworld. Then Spring gives the seed a new form and it appears to bless the earth, just as Proserpine was led forth to her mother and to the light of day.

THE PLOUGHMAN WHO BROUGHT FAMINE.

Erisichthon had made up his mind to kill the Dryad who lived in the oak tree.

He was one of the strongest ploughmen in all Greece, and he knew Ceres who presided over the fields and her favorite Dryad of the oak tree very well. The oak tree had stood for centuries in a grove in which Ceres loved to rest, and it was almost a forest in itself. It overtopped the other trees as far as they stretched above the shrubs. Its trunk measured fifteen cubits around, and it was supported upon roots that were almost as strong as iron cables.

It was supposed in those old days of Greece to be a tree of wonders. It was this oak that guarded the wide agricultural domain of Ceres, and the Dryad who lived inside was one of the messengers of this goddess through the farms and orchards. She was a slender, fair young creature who would never grow old and carried sunbeams in her hands that brought new growth wherever she spilled them.

When the grove was empty and still, all the other Dryads would step softly from their dwelling places in the cypress, the olive and the pine trees and join hands as they danced lightly about the oak tree, singing their praises of the great Ceres who fed with her bounty the whole of Greece. The country people, and even those from the cities, came to pay their homage to Ceres' oak, bringing garlands of roses and laurel that they hung on its boughs, and carving messages of thanks and love for the Dryad on its bark.

Erisichthon knew all this, but he wanted a quantity of wood for his farm without the trouble of earning it. He decided the property of Ceres was his, by right, because he had ploughed her fields at the time of the planting. So Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare the wonderful oak tree, even if it did shelter a Dryad. He called his servants together, armed them with freshly sharpened axes, and they set out for the forest.

When they reached the oak tree, Erisichthon's men hesitated. The tree looked like a temple, its wide spreading branches sheltering the other trees, and its great trunk towering toward the sky like a bronze pillar. Each man remembered Ceres' bounty toward him, her gifts of apples and corn, grapes and wheat, and best of all her offering of land that would bring plenty for the ploughing and planting.

"We cannot cut it. This is a tree well beloved of Ceres," the men said to their master.

"I care not whether it be a tree beloved of the goddess or not," Erisichthon shouted angrily to them. "If I cut it down I shall have no more need of Ceres, for its wood will make me rich beyond the need of planting. She owes me a living on account of the past seasons in which I have worked for her. If Ceres herself were in my way I would cut her down also!" he exclaimed.

With this terrible threat on his lips, the lawless ploughman seized an axe from one of his trembling servants and began chopping the trunk of the mighty tree. He had great strength, and each blow cut a deep gash.

As Erisichthon cut in toward the heart of the oak tree, that held the Dryad, the oak began to shiver and groan, but he showed it no mercy. He ordered his men to tie ropes to the branches and pull, and he continued to cut it until the tree fell with a crash that was like the sound of a thunderbolt, and brought down with it a great part of the forest that surrounded it.

As the giant trunk lay on the ground at the feet of Erisichthon, there was a sighing of the branches like that of a summer breeze passing through, and the leaves fluttered as if they had been stirred by the flight of a bird. It was the spirit of the Dryad whom Erisichthon had so hurt, taking her way to her family of the gods on Mount Olympus.

Those Dryads who were left in the grove hastened to Ceres with news of what had happened.

"This man must be punished!" they cried.

Ceres bowed her head in assent, and the fields of grain bowed also, and the branches of the fruit trees drooped. It was the ripe time of the harvest, but there were no crops on the farm of Erisichthon, and Ceres decreed that no neighbor should share with him.

In the northern part of Greece lay the ice topped mountains of Scythia, a bleak, unfertile region without fruit or grain. Cold, and Fear, and Shuddering lived there and one other, who was more to be dreaded than all three. This was Famine with unkempt hair and sunken eyes, blanched lips, and her skin tightly drawn over her sharp bones. She made her home in a hard, stony field where she pulled up the scanty herbage with her claw-like fingers and tried to subsist on it.

After Erisichthon had cut down the old oak tree Ceres sent to Scythia for Famine.

Erisichthon found that it was going to be a month's task to cut up his wood and carry it to his farm, so he went home to rest over night, planning to start the work in the morning. He felt hungry after his hard work of chopping down the tree, but he had not even a pomegranate for his supper. All his food had strangely disappeared. He decided to go to bed and try to forget his hunger in sleep.

"I will sell a load of wood in the morning for many gold coins," he thought, "and buy food in plenty."

So Erisichthon lay down on his couch and was soon fast asleep. Then Famine sped in through the window and hovered over where he lay. She folded her wings around him and breathed her poison into his veins. Then she hastened back to Scythia, for she had no other errand in a land of plenty.

Erisichthon did not wake but he stirred in his sleep and moved his jaws as if he were eating, for he was very hungry in his dreams. In the morning he woke with a raging hunger that was a hundred times worse than that of the day before.

He sold his load of wood and spent all the money for whatever food the earth, the air, and the sea produced. He consumed vast quantities of fish, fowl, the flesh of lambs, fruit and vegetables; but the more Erisichthon ate, the greater was his hunger. The amount of food that would have been enough for the whole of Athens was not sufficient for this man. He continually craved more.

Erisichthon sold the wood of the entire oak tree, and began selling pieces of the land that made his farm in order to get food for appeasing his terrible hunger. At last his fields were gone and he had to sell his furniture, his tools, his books, and all his vases. Still he could not get food enough to appease his gnawing appetite, so he sold his house and lived in a tent that he set up beside the road. But his hunger was still unsatisfied and in his madness Erisichthon sold his only daughter to be the slave of a fisherman who cast his nets beside the Aegean Sea.

The girl loved her father very dearly and her grief, as she gathered sea weed along the shore for her master, touched the heart of Neptune, the god of the sea. He changed her to the form of a horse, and she went home to Erisichthon, hoping that he would look upon so fine an animal with favor, and give it a home. But her father sold the horse to a chariot racer. She escaped and went again to the shore where Neptune changed her, in turn, to a stag, an ox, and a rare bird. Each time she made her way home, and each time her father sold her to buy food. So the bird flew away to Mount Olympus and was never seen again.

At last there came a day when Erisichthon could feed himself no longer. There was nothing left to him in the world that he could sell, and his hunger was so great that he went, like a raving beast, up and down the bountiful fields of Ceres demanding that food be given him.

But those whom Famine touches because they break Ceres' laws, and destroy life and property find no help unless they try to restore the order that they have hurt. Erisichthon was too weak to work, and he could never raise another oak tree like that one which had been growing for centuries. So he went, at last, to live with Famine in Scythia which was a long way from the Mount of the gods.

THE BEE MAN OF ARCADIA.

Strange things were happening in a field of the beautiful country called Arcadia. A youth who wore a wreath of green laurel leaves on his dark hair sat on a rock and held a lyre in his hands from whose strings he drew sweet music. And as he played a wolf, who had been the terror of the shepherds for many leagues around, came out of the woods and lay down like a great dog at the feet of the youth. Next, the nearby olive trees bent their heads to listen and then moved toward him until they stood in a circle at his feet. Then the hard rock on which the musician rested covered itself with soft green verdure and bluebells and violets began to lift their heads, growing out of its age-old stones.

This was what always happened when Orpheus, the son of Apollo, played the lyre that his father had given him and had taught him to use. Nothing could withstand the charm of his music. Not only the farmers and shepherds, the nymphs and fauns of Arcadian woods and fields were softened and drawn by his tunes, but the wild beasts as well laid by their fierceness and stood, entranced, at his strains.

Orpheus touched his lyre again and played an even lovelier song. And out of the forest glided the nymph, Eurydice, taking her place near Orpheus. His music had won her devotion and Hymen, the god of marriage, had made the two very happy. Their deepest wish was that they might never be separated.

The whole of Arcadia was charmed by Orpheus' lute. No, there was just one person in that beautiful country who positively disliked music, and that was the bee-man, Aristaeus. In fact, Aristaeus could not see the value of anything beautiful, the statues and vases in the temple of Apollo, the tapestries the weavers decorated with so many soft colors, the tints of the wild flowers, or the arch of the rainbow in the sky after a shower. This bee-man could find no interest in anything except his combs of yellow honey, their number, and how many gold coins he would be paid for them. Not only did Aristaeus dislike beautiful things, but he did not want others to enjoy them. A cross old Arcadian, was he not?

He was feeling particularly disagreeable on the morning when Orpheus began playing his lute near his farm. And when Eurydice, whom Orpheus so loved, approached him to ask for a comb of his delicious honey for dinner for the two, Aristaeus entirely lost his temper. He not only refused the nymph, which no one but a very stingy person could have done, for she smiled at him so winningly and asked for it so politely; but he chased Eurydice off his farm.