It seemed as if Admetus were destined to enjoy a long and prosperous reign, but shortly after he brought his queen home he fell ill of a very deadly plague. Aesculapius, the physician, was no longer able to come to the king's aid and it seemed as if there was no hope for him. But his celestial herdsman, Apollo, again befriended him. Apollo was not able to entirely remove the plague but he decreed that the king should live if someone, who cared enough for him, would die in his stead.
Admetus was full of joy at this hope. He remembered the vows of faith and attachment that bound all his courtiers to him and he expected that a score would at once offer themselves, willing to sacrifice their lives for their king. But not one was to be found. The bravest warrior, who would willingly have given his life for his king on the battlefield, had not the courage to die for him on a sick-bed. Old servants, who had known the king's bounty and that of his father from the days of their childhood, were not willing to give up the rest of their few days for their sovereign. Each subject wished someone else to make the sacrifice.
"Why do not the parents of Admetus give their lives for their son?" was asked, but these aged people felt that they could not bear to be parted from him for even a short time, and looked to others.
What was to be done about it. It was an irrevocable decree on the part of Apollo that he had wrested only by means of much persuasion from the Fates. There was no remedy for Admetus except this sacrifice.
Then a very strange and wonderful thing happened. Queen Alcestis, the fair princess who had wanted to ride behind lions and bears when she was a girl in her own kingdom, had grown very wise and gracious since she had attained to the throne of Thessaly. It had never for an instant entered the minds of anyone that she could be offered to the gods in the place of the king. But Queen Alcestis offered herself to save Admetus, and as she sickened the king revived and was restored to his old health and vigor.
Apollo was, of all the mourners of Thessaly, the saddest to see Alcestis so ill. She had often found her way to the pastures where he led his flock and had sat on a bank twining wreaths of wild flowers that she liked better to wear than a crown, while he entertained her with the music of his lute. And, for once, Apollo did not know what to do, banished as he was from the council of the gods for a while, and unable to summon the physician, Aesculapius, to his aid.
He knew that only great strength could bring Alcestis back from the stupor in which she now lay, neither moving or speaking, and with her rosy cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He knew, too, that of all the heroes Hercules was the strongest. Hercules had performed feats that no one had believed possible. Would he attempt to keep Alcestis safe from death, Apollo wondered, particularly when he was entreated by a lowly herdsman?
Hercules assented, however. He took his station at the gates of the palace and wrestled with Death, throwing him, just as he was about to enter and claim Alcestis. She lost her weakness, opened her eyes, the color came again to her cheeks and she was restored to Admetus by this last labor of Hercules.
So the matter which had bade fair to be so disastrous for a good many people turned out very well after all. Apollo returned to Mount Olympus when the period of his exile on the earth was up and he delighted the Muses much with the sweet tones of his lyre. He even pleaded with his father, Jupiter, to take pity on Aesculapius and the god at last made a place for the physician on the road of stars that leads across the sky.
HOW JUPITER GRANTED A WISH.
Each of the villagers in a town of Phrygia heard a knock at the door of his cottage one summer day in the long-ago time of the myths. Each, on opening it, saw two strangers, weary travellers, who sought food and a shelter for the night.
It was a part of the temple teachings that a man should succor a stranger, no matter how humble, but these Phrygians were a pleasure-loving, careless people, neglectful of hospitality and of their temple, even, which had fallen into decay.
So it happened that the same retort met the strangers at whatever door they stopped.
"Be off! We have only sufficient food for ourselves and no room for any but members of our own family."
There was not a single door but was shut in the faces of these travellers.
The afternoon was passing and it would soon be dusk. The strangers, tired and half famished, climbed a hill on the edge of the village and came at last upon a little cottage set there among the trees. It was a very poor and humble cottage, thatched with straw, and barely large enough for the two old peasants, Philemon and his wife, Baucis, who lived there. But it opened at once when the strangers knocked to let in the two strangers.
"We have come to-day from a far country," the one who seemed to be the older of the two explained.
"And we have not touched food since yesterday," added the younger one who might have been his son.
"Then you are welcome to whatever we have to offer you," said Philemon.
"We are as poor as the birds that nest in the straw of our eaves, but my old wife, Baucis, can prepare a meal from very little which may perhaps serve you if you are hungry. Come in, and share with us whatever we have."
The two guests crossed the humble threshold, bowing their heads in order to pass beneath the low lintel, and Baucis offered them a seat and begged them to try and feel at home.
The day had grown chilly and the old woman raked out the coals from the ashes, covered them with leaves and dry bark, and blew the fire into flame with her scanty breath. Then she brought some split sticks and dry branches from a corner where she had kept them like a treasure and put them under the kettle that hung over the fire. Afterward, she spread a white cloth on the table.
As Baucis made these preparations, Philemon went out to their small garden and gathered the last of the pot-herbs. Baucis put these to boil in the kettle and Philemon cut a piece from their last flitch of bacon and put it in to flavor the herbs. A bowl carved from beech wood was filled with warm water that the strangers might be refreshed by bathing their faces, and then Baucis tremblingly made the preparations for serving the meal.
The guests were to sit on the only bench which the cottage afforded and Baucis laid a cushion stuffed with seaweed on it and over the cushion she spread a piece of embroidered cloth, ancient and coarse, but one that she used only on great occasions. One of the legs of the table was shorter than the other, but Philemon placed a flat stone under it to make it level, and Baucis rubbed sweet smelling herbs over the entire top of the table. Then she placed the food before the strangers, the steaming, savory herbs, olives from the wild trees of Minerva, some sweet berries preserved in vinegar, cheese, radishes, and eggs cooked lightly in the ashes. It was served in earthen dishes and beside the guests stood an earthenware pitcher and two wooden cups.
There could hardly have been a more appetizing supper, and the kindly cheer of the two old peasants made it seem even more delectable. The guests ate hungrily and when they had emptied the dishes Baucis brought a bowl of rosy apples and a comb of wild honey for dessert. She noticed that the two seemed to be enjoying their milk hugely and it made her anxious, for the pitcher had not been more than half full. They filled their cups again and again and drained them.
"They will finish the milk and ask for more," Baucis thought, "and I have not another drop."
Then a great fear and awe possessed the old woman. She peered over the shoulder of the older of the strangers into the pitcher and saw that it was brimming full! He poured from it for his companion and it was again full to overflowing as he set it down. Here was a miracle, Baucis knew.
Suddenly the strangers rose and their disguise of age and travel stained garments fell from them. They were Jupiter, the king of the gods, and his winged son, Mercury!
Baucis and Philemon were struck with terror as they recognized their heavenly guests, and they fell on their knees at the gods' feet. With their shaking hands clasped they implored the gods to pardon them for their poor entertainment.
They had an old goose which they tended and cherished as the guardian of their cottage, and now they felt that they must kill it as a sacrifice and offering to Jupiter and Mercury. But the goose ran nimbly away from them and took refuge between the gods themselves.
"Do not slay the bird," Jupiter commanded. "Your hospitality has been perfect. But this inhospitable village shall pay the penalty for its lack of reverence. You alone shall remain unpunished. Come and look at the valley below."
Baucis and Philemon left the cottage and hobbled a little way down the hill with the gods. In the last light of the setting sun they saw the destruction which the people below had brought upon themselves. There was nothing left of the village. All the valley was sunk in a blue lake, the borders of it being wild marsh land indented with pools in which the fen-birds waded and called shrilly.
"There is no house left save ours," Philemon gasped.
Then, as they turned, they saw that their cottage, also, had disappeared. It had not been destroyed, though. It was transformed.
Stately marble columns had taken the place of the wooden corner posts.
The thatch had grown yellow and was now a golden roof. There were colored mosaic floors and wide silver doors with ornaments and carvings of gold. Their little hut, that had been scarcely large enough for two, had grown to the height and bulk of a temple whose gilded spires reached up toward the sky. Baucis and Philemon were too awed for words, but Jupiter spoke to them.
"What further gift of the gods would you like, good people? Ask whatever you wish and it shall be granted you."
The two old folks consulted for a moment and then Philemon made their request of Jupiter.
"We would like to be the guardians of your temple, great Jupiter. And since we have passed so much of our lives here in harmony and love, we wish that we might always remain here and never be parted for a moment."
As Philemon finished speaking, he heard Jupiter say, "Your wish is granted." And with these words the gods disappeared from earth. There was a long trail of purple light in the sky like Jupiter's robe, and beside it lay two wing-shaped clouds which marked the road Mercury had taken, but that was all.
Baucis and Philemon went into the temple and were its keepers as long as they were able. One day in the spring when the old couple had become very ancient indeed they stood on the temple steps side by side, looking at the new green the earth was putting forth. In that moment another miracle happened to them.
Each grew straight instead of bent with age, and their garments were covered with green leaves. A leafy crown grew upon the head of each and as they tried to speak, a covering of bark prevented them. Two stately trees, the linden and the oak, stood beside the temple door to guard it in the place of the two good old people who, for their reverence, had been thus transformed by the gods.
HOW HYACINTHUS BECAME A FLOWER.
Kings and athletes, country folk and the musicians, sages and merchants from the towns were all on their way toward the green hill of Parnassus, one of the long-ago days of the myths, where the city of Delphi stood.
The kings rode in their gaily adorned chariots which were drawn by the fleetest steeds from the royal stables. The youths were dressed for running, or they carried flat, circular discs of stone for throwing at a mark, javelins and bows and quivers of arrows. The road that led to the white temple of Apollo at Delphi was choked with people on foot, people on horseback, and people riding in farm wagons, all going in the same direction. It was a very great occasion indeed, one that came but once in five years, the day when the Pythian games in honor of Apollo were held at Delphi.
They climbed the hill of Parnassus which was a very famous mount, because of all that had happened there. When the gods saw fit to destroy the earth, Parnassus, alone, had raised its head above the waters and sheltered man. There, too, Apollo had transformed his beloved, Daphne, into a laurel tree and ever since then the slopes of the hill had been green and pink with the branches and blossoms of the laurel. Now, Parnassus sheltered one of the most famed cities of Greece, Delphi, and on a wide plain, near a deep cleft in the rock where the oracle was supposed to speak, the games of the Greeks were held in honor of Apollo, who was the god of sports.
The ground about the game field and the tiers of stone seats surrounding it were soon filled with a crowd of onlookers in their holiday garments of white and purple and gold. Upon a carved marble pillar at the entrance of the field was hung a great wreath of laurel, the prize of the winner, and everyone was talking about who this would be.
"The greatest test of all is the discus throwing," a lad on the edge of the crowd said to another. "The stone that is hurled from a javelin, or a spear thrown by a trained soldier has a chance to go straight to the mark, but who can aim the thin discus with the wind waiting to turn it from its course and carry it wide of the mark?"
The other lad thought for a moment. Then he spoke.
"The youth, Hyacinthus, could," he said.
"Oh, Hyacinthus!" the first lad replied as if the name was a kind of spell to work magic. "Hyacinthus, of course, would win the prize, for is he not the friend of Apollo? It is said that the great god of sports has visited and played games with Hyacinthus ever since the lad was able to swing a javelin. He comes to him in the form of a youth like himself because he loves him so, and they run races and have contests of skill here on Parnassus, and roam the groves together. How great an honor to have a god for one's friend!" the boy said wistfully.
But both boys stepped back then and watched breathlessly as four war chariots, driven abreast, approached. The horses sweated and foamed, the drivers stood up perilously, shouting and gripping the reins as the chariots tipped and crashed along the course. Two chariots locked wheels and the drivers fell beneath the terrified, stamping steeds, but no one heeded them as the other two rolled and swayed past them, and one reached the goal heralded by a shout the crowd sent up as if from one giant throat.
"Now, the discus combat!" the boy who had spoken before said, as a slender youth in a robe of Tyrian dyes stepped proudly into the centre of the field holding the flat, round discus in his hand.
"Hyacinthus, by my word!" the second lad exclaimed, "but who is that beside him?" he asked, as another youth, dark eyed, straight limbed, and with a countenance that shone like fire appeared, as if he had dropped from the clouds, and took his place beside Hyacinthus.
"It is Apollo himself in the guise of a youth!" the awed whisper ran through the crowd. "He has come to guide the discus that his friend Hyacinthus carries straight to the mark."
That was the wonder that had happened. Those who had far-seeing eyes could discern in the strange youth on the game field the god Apollo, his crown of light showing in bright rays about his head. No one spoke. All faces were turned toward the two as Apollo grasped the discus, raised it far above his head, and with a strange power mingled with skill sent it high and far.
Hyacinthus watched the discus cut through the air as straight as an arrow shot from a bow. He was perfectly sure that it would skim, without turning, as far as the goal at the opposite end of the field and perhaps farther, for he had great faith in this heavenly youth who had been his companion in so many good times. As swiftly as the discus traveled, did Hyacinthus' thoughts wing their memories of Apollo's friendship. He had accompanied Hyacinthus in his tramps through the forest, carried the nets when he went fishing, led his dogs to the chase and even neglected his lyre for their excursions up to the top of Parnassus.
"I will run ahead and bring back the discus," Hyacinthus thought, and excited by the sport and the crowds, he leaped forward to follow the flight of the swift stone.
At that instant the discus, turned from its course by Zephyrous, the wind-god, who also loved Hyacinthus and was jealous of Apollo's affection for him, struck the earth and bounded back, hitting Hyacinthus' forehead.
Apollo, as pale as the fallen Hyacinthus, ran to his side, raised him, and tried with all his art to stop the bleeding of his wound and save his life. But the youth's hurt was beyond the power of all healing. As a white lily, when one has broken it, hangs its head in the garden and turns toward the earth, so the head of the dying Hyacinthus, too heavy for his neck, lay upon his shoulders.
"I have killed you, my dearest friend," Apollo cried, as the people pushed closer to see the tragedy and then turned their faces away from this grief of a god which was greater than a mortal could feel. "I have robbed you of your youth. Yours was the suffering and mine the crime. I would that I were able to mingle my blood with yours which is spilled here for me." Then Apollo was silent, looking at the ground where Hyacinthus' blood had stained the grass, for a wonder was happening.
The crimson stain on the leaves changed to royal purple, and the stem and foliage and petals of a new flower appeared, so sweetly fragrant that it filled the whole field with its perfume. There had never been so beautiful a blossom as this. Touching its wax-like flowers, Apollo knew that the gods had comforted him in his sorrow. His friend would live always in the flower that had sprung where he fell on Parnassus, our hyacinth, the promise of the spring.
HOW KING MIDAS LOST HIS EARS.
They needed a new king in the country of Phrygia in Asia and there was an old saying at the court that some day they would have a ruler who arrived at the palace in a farm wagon.
No one had thought very much about this prophecy but, to the surprise of all, a peasant and his wife drove into the public square one day in an ox cart, bringing their son, Midas, on the seat between them. The peasant's name was Gordius, and he dismounted, tying his wagon in such a hard knot that it looked as if he intended that the team should stay there. In fact it was called the Gordian knot and it was so hard a knot that it was reported that he who was able to untie it would be the ruler of all Asia.
The wagon remained there, just outside the palace gates, securely fastened, and Gordius and his wife walked home leaving Midas. It was so exactly an interpretation of the prophecy that Midas was made king and put upon the throne of Phrygia.
He had every opportunity of being a ruler of parts, for his humble birth would not have interfered at all, but Midas, from the very beginning of his reign, used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead of carrying out the will of the people.
Bacchus, with vine leaves twisted about his curling locks and a goblet of the purple juice of the grape always in his hand, was the god of the vineyards. King Midas made the acquaintance of Bacchus, who was a friendly, peaceful god and fond of human companionship. And Bacchus unexpectedly offered Midas his choice of any wish that he cherished.
What did King Midas ask but that whatever he touched might be turned to gold!
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.
No one had treated Eurydice so rudely in all her life before. Even Pan had gathered flowers for her to twine into garlands and had refrained from teasing her as he did almost all the other nymphs. And here she was, a long distance from Orpheus and pursued by an ugly tempered country man! Eurydice ran like the wind, the bee-man coming fast behind her. She was much fleeter than he and would have reached the woods safely, but she stepped suddenly on a snake that she had not seen as it lay coiled up in the grass. The snake stung Eurydice's bare feet and she dropped down on the ground.
"It serves her right!" the bee-man said, not going to see how badly she was hurt. And with that he went back to his bees.
Aristaeus was the very first bee-man, the myths tell us. When the gods made the little creatures of the earth they made also the honey bees and taught them how to build themselves homes in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, to find the nectar in the flowers, and make from it their thick, golden honey. Aristaeus was the son of the water-nymph Cyrene, and he came to Arcadia with the remembrance of the music of the waters and the brightness of the sun in his heart, but when he discovered how to attract the bees to his farm and take their honey away from them and sell it, he forgot everything except his business. That was when he began to dislike Orpheus and to become blind to the fair country in which he lived.
"Three hives are swarming to-day," the bee-man thought as he came home.
"I ought to be able to get a good sum for the honey." Then, as he reached the orchard where his hives were placed on the wall, he looked about him in amazement. Hives, bees, all were gone. Not a buzz, a sting, or a single drop of honey was left!
Aristaeus looked throughout the entire countryside for his bees for days, but he could not find a single one. At last he gave up the search and did what a good many boys and girls would be apt to do in the same emergency. He went to ask the advice of his mother, the sea-nymph Cyrene.
He went to the edge of the river where he knew she lived and called her.
"O mother, the pride of my life is taken away from me. I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing. Can you turn from me this blow of misfortune?"
His mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river with her attendant nymphs around her. They were busy spinning and weaving beautiful designs in water weeds and painting pebbles while another told stories to amuse the rest. But the sad voice of the bee-man interrupted them and one put her head above the water.
Seeing Aristaeus, she returned and told his mother, who ordered that he be brought down to her.
At the command of Cyrene, the river opened itself and let him pass through, as it stood curled like a mountain on either side. The bee-man descended to the place where the fountains of the great rivers lie. He saw the enormous rock beds of the waters and was almost deafened by their roar as he saw them hurrying off in all their different directions to water the face of the earth. Then Aristaeus came to his mother's palace of shells and stone and he was taken to her apartment where he told her his troubles.
Cyrene, being a dweller of the waters which are the fountain of life, was very wise. She understood at once that her son had made a mistake in not seeing that it was possible to combine beauty and usefulness.
Arcadia needed bees, but it needed Orpheus and his lute also, and the gods had punished the bee-man for his sordidness. Still, he was her son and Cyrene decided to try and help Aristaeus out of his difficulty.
"You must go to old Proteus, who is the herdsman of Neptune's sea-calves," Cyrene said. "He can tell you, my son, how to get back your bees, for he is a great prophet. You will have to force him to help you, however. If you are able to seize him, chain him at once; he will answer your questions in order to be released. I will conduct you to the cave where he comes at noon to take his nap. Then you can easily secure him, but when he finds himself in chains he will cause you a great deal of trouble. He will make a noise like the crackling of flames so as to frighten you into loosing your hold on the chain. Or he may become a wild boar, a fierce tiger, a lion with ravenous jaws or a devouring dragon. But you have only to keep Proteus fast bound and when he finds all his arts to be of no avail he will return to his natural shape and obey your commands."
So Cyrene led Aristaeus to the cave by the sea and showed him where to hide behind a rock while she, herself, arose and took her place behind the clouds. Promptly at noon old Proteus, covered with dripping green weeds, issued from the water followed by a herd of sea calves who spread themselves out on the shore. The herdsman of the sea counted them, sat down on the floor of the cave, and then in a very short time had stretched himself out, fast asleep. Aristaeus waited until he was snoring and then he bound him with a heavy chain he had brought for the purpose.
When Proteus awoke and found himself captured, he struggled like a wild animal at bay. Next, he turned to flame and then, in succession to many terrible beasts, but Aristaeus never once let go of the chain that secured him. At last he returned to his true form and spoke angrily to Aristaeus.
"Who are you, who boldly invades my domain and what do you want?"
Proteus demanded.
"You know already," the bee-man replied, "for you have the powers of a prophet and nothing is hidden from you. I have lost my bees, and I want to have them returned to me."
At these words, the prophet fixed his eyes on Aristaeus with a piercing look.
"Your trouble is the just reward sent you by the gods because you killed Eurydice," he said. "To avenge her death, her companion nymphs sent this destruction to your bees."
"I killed Eurydice?" Aristaeus asked in amazement. "Does she no longer listen to the music of Orpheus?"
"Yes, but not in Arcadia," Proteus explained. "When she was stung by the viper, she was obliged to make her way alone to the dark realm of Pluto. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and men, and then he started out to search for Eurydice. He passed through the crowd of ghosts and entered the realm beyond the dark river Styx. There, in front of the throne of Pluto, he sang of his longing that Eurydice might be restored to him, until the cheeks of even the Fates were wet with tears.
"Pluto himself gave way to Orpheus' music and called Eurydice. She came to Orpheus, limping on her wounded foot. They roam the happy fields of the gods together now, he leading sometimes and sometimes she. And Jupiter has placed Orpheus' lyre among the stars."
As Proteus finished telling his story, the penitent Aristaeus fell on the ground at his feet.
"What can I do to appease the anger of the gods for my wickedness?" he asked.
"You may use your skill to build temples to the two in the country of Arcadia which they so loved," Proteus said. "Take your way home. Forget your own gains for a while and gather stones to fit together for the altars."
So the bee-man did this, and he discovered that he came to enjoy the work very much. He took pleasure in cutting and polishing the stones until they were as beautiful as those of any temple in Greece. As he worked in the grove that he had selected for his building he often thought that he detected the music of Orpheus' lyre as the birds sang, and the streams rippled, and the wind blew through the leaves. He found it very sweet indeed.
One day, shortly after his beautiful altars were built, Aristaeus found a wonder. It was spring, when the nearby orchards were white and sweet with blossoms, and there were all his honey bees returned, and busily starting their hives under the shadow of the temple of Eurydice.
WHEN POMONA SHARED HER APPLES.
Pomona was a dryad, and Venus had given her a wild apple tree to be her home. As Pomona grew up under the shadow of its branches, protecting the buds from winter storms, dressing herself in its pink blossoms in the spring time, and holding up her hands to catch its apples in the fall, she found that her love for this fruit tree was greater than anything else in her life. At last Pomona planted the first orchard and lived in it and tended it.
The dryads were those favored children of the gods who lived in the ancient woods and groves, each in her special tree. Dressed in fluttering green garments, they danced through the woodland ways with steps as light as the wind, sang to the tune of Pan's pipe, or fled, laughing, from the Fauns. They missed Pomona in the woods, and tales came to these forest dwellers of the wonders she was working in the raising of fruits fit for the table of the gods.
She had trees on which golden oranges and yellow lemons hung among deep green leaves. She raised citrons and limes, and even cultivated the wide spreading tamarind tree whose fruit was of such value to Epictetus, the physician of Greece, in cooling the fires of fever. The wood folk left their mossy hiding places to peer over the wall of Pomona's orchard and watch her working so busily there.
They were a strange company. Pan came from Arcadia where he was the god of flocks and shepherds. He had fastened some reeds from the stream together to make his pipes, and on them he could play the merriest music. It sounded like birds and the singing of brooks and summer breezes all in one. With Pan came his family of Fauns, the deities of the woods and fields. Their bodies were covered with bristling hair, there were short, sprouting horns on their heads, and their feet were shaped like those of a goat. Pan was of the same strange guise as the Fauns were, but to distinguish his rank, he wore a garland of pine about his head.
These and Pomona's sisters, the dryads, watched her longingly from the budding time of the year until the harvest. It was a pleasant sight to see Pomona taking care of her apples. She was never without a pruning knife which she carried as proudly as Jupiter did his sceptre. With it she trimmed away the foliage of her fruit trees wherever it had grown too thick, cut the branches that had straggled out of shape, and sometimes deftly split a twig to graft in a new one so that the tree might bear different, better apples.
Pomona even led streams of water close to the roots of the trees so that they need not suffer from drought. She looked, herself, a part of the orchard, for she wore a wreath of bright fruits and her arms were often full of apples almost as huge and golden as the famous apples of Hesperides.
The dryads and the Fauns begged one, at least, of the apples, but Pomona refused them all. She had grown selfish through the seasons in which she had brought her orchard to a state of such bounteous perfection. She would not give away a single apple, and she kept her gate always locked.
So the wood creatures were obliged to go home empty handed to their forest places.
In those days Vertumnus was one of the lesser gods who watched over the seasons. The fame of Pomona's fruits came to the ear of Vertumnus and he was suddenly possessed of a great desire to share the orchard and its care with her. He sent messengers in the form of the birds to plead his cause with Pomona, but she was just as cruel to him as she had been to the family of Pan and to her own sisters. She had made up her mind that she would never share her orchard with any one in the world.
Vertumnus would not give up, though. He had the power to change his form as he willed, and he decided to go to Pomona in disguise to see if he could not win her by appealing to her pity. She was obliged to buy her grain, and one day in October when the apple boughs bent low with their great red and yellow balls a reaper came to the orchard gate with a basket of ears of corn for Pomona.
"I ask no gold for my grain," he said to the goddess, "I want only a basket full of fruit in return for it."
"My fruit is not to be given away or bartered for. It is mine and mine alone until it spoils," Pomona replied, driving the reaper away.
But the following day a farmer stopped at the orchard, an ox goad in his hand as if he had just unyoked a pair of weary oxen from his hay cart, left them resting beside some stream, and had gone on to ask refreshment for himself. Pomona invited him into her orchard, but she did not offer him a single apple. As soon as the sun began to lower she bade him be on his way.
In the days that followed Vertumnus came to Pomona in many guises. He appeared with a pruning hook and a ladder as if he were a vine dresser ready and willing to climb up into her trees and help her gather the harvest. But Pomona scorned his services. Then Vertumnus trudged along as a discharged soldier in need of alms, and again with a fishing rod and a string of fish to exchange for only one apple. Each time that Vertumnus came disguised to Pomona he found her more beautiful and her orchard a place of greater plenty than ever; but the richer her harvest the deeper was her greed. She refused to share even a half of one of her apples.
At last, when the vines were dripping with purple juice of the grape and the boughs of the fruit trees hung so heavily that they touched the ground, a strange woman hobbled down the road and stopped at Pomona's gate. Her hair was white and she was obliged to lean on a staff. Pomona opened the gate and the crone entered and sat down on a bank, admiring the trees.
"Your orchard does you great credit, my daughter," she said to Pomona.
Then she pointed to a grape vine that twined itself about the trunk and branches of an old oak. The oak was massive and strong, and the vine clung to it in safety and had covered itself with bunches of beautiful purple grapes.
"If that tree stood alone," the old woman explained to Pomona, "with no vine to cling to it, it would have nothing to offer but its useless leaves. And if the vine did not have the tree to cling to, it would have to lie prostrate on the ground.
"You should take a lesson from the vine. Might not your orchard be still more fruitful if you were to open the gate to Vertumnus who has charge of the seasons and can help you as the oak helps the vine? The gods believe in sharing the gifts they give the earth. No one who is selfish can prosper for long."
"Tell me about this Vertumnus, good mother," Pomona asked curiously.
"I know Vertumnus as well as I know myself," the crone replied. "He is not a wandering god, but belongs among these hills and pastures of our fair land. He is young and handsome and has the power to take upon himself any form that he may wish. He likes the same things that you do, gardening, and caring for the ruddy fruits. Venus, who gave you an apple tree to be your first home, hates a hard heart and if you will persist in living alone in your orchard, refusing to share your apples, she is likely to punish you by sending frosts to blight your young fruits and terrible winds to break the boughs."
Pomona clasped her hands in fear. She suddenly understood how true was everything that this old woman said. She had known a spring-time when a storm of wind and hail had shaken off the apple blossoms, and frosts had touched the fruits one fall before she had been able to pick them.
"I will open my gate to the country people and to strangers," she said.
"I will open it also to Vertumnus if he is still willing to share my orchard and my work."
As Pomona spoke, the old woman rose and her gray hair turned to the dark locks of Vertumnus. Her wrinkles faded in the glow of his sunburned cheeks. Her travel stained garments were replaced by Vertumnus' russet gardening smock and her staff to his pruning fork. He seemed to Pomona like the sun bursting through a cloud. She had never really seen him before, having never looked at anyone except with the eyes of selfishness. Vertumnus and Pomona began the harvesting together, and they opened the gate wide to let in those who had need of sharing their plenty.
Then the fauns danced in and made merry to the tunes that Pan played.
The dryads found new homes for themselves in the trunks of the trees, and the seasons gave rain and sunshine in greater abundance than ever before as these two pruned, and trimmed, and grafted the trees and vines together.
Achelous, the river god, took his way past the orchard kingdom of Pomona and Vertumnus and brought with him Plenty who was able to fill her horn with gifts of fruit for all, apples, pears, grapes, oranges, plums, and citrons until it overflowed. Ever since the October when Pomona opened her gate and shared her apples, an orchard has been a place of beauty, bounty, and play.
HOW PSYCHE REACHED MOUNT OLYMPUS.
Once upon a time there was a king of Greece who had three beautiful daughters, but the youngest, who was named Psyche, was the most beautiful of all. The fame of her lovely face and the charm of her whole being were so great that strangers from the neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight and they paid Psyche the homage of love that was due to Venus herself. Venus' temple was deserted, and as Psyche passed by the people sang her praises, and strewed her way with flowers and wreaths.
Venus had a son, Cupid, who was dearer to her than any other being on Mount Olympus or in the earth. Like every mother, Venus had great ambitions for the future of her son, but she was not always able to follow him, for Cupid had wings and a golden bow and arrows with which he was fond of playing among mortals. What was Venus' wrath to discover at last that Cupid had lost his heart to Psyche, the lovely maiden of earth! It was like a fairy story in which a prince marries a peasant girl and may not bring her home to the palace because of her mean birth.
Venus quite refused to recognize Psyche or award her a place in the honored family of the gods.
Cupid and Psyche had a very wonderful earthly palace in which to live.
Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls of the apartments of state were richly carved and hung with embroidered tapestries of many colors. When Psyche wished food, all she had to do was to seat herself in an alcove when a table immediately appeared without the aid of servants and covered itself with rare fruits and rich cakes and honey. When she longed for music, she had a feast of it played by invisible lutes, and with a chorus of harmonious voices. But Psyche was not happy in this life of luxury, for she had to be alone so much of the time. Venus could not take Cupid away from her altogether, but she allowed him to be with Psyche only in the hours of darkness. He fled before the dawn.
There had been a direful prophecy in Psyche's family of which her sisters had continually reminded her.
"Your youngest daughter is destined for a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist," was the oracle given to the king, and the memory of it began to fill Psyche's heart with fear. Her sisters came to visit her and increased her fear. They asked all manner of questions about Cupid, and Psyche was obliged to confess that she could not exactly describe him because she had never seen him in the light of day. Her jealous sisters began at once to fill Psyche's mind with dark suspicions.
"How do you know," they asked, "that your husband is not a terrible and venomous serpent, who feeds you for a while with all these dainties that he may devour you in the end? Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp well filled with oil and tonight, when this villain returns and sleeps, go into his apartment and see whether or not our prophecy is true."
Psyche tried to resist her sisters, but at last their urging and her own curiosity were too much for her. She filled her lamp, and when her husband had fallen into his first sleep, she went silently to his couch and held the light above him.
There lay Cupid, the most beautiful and full of grace of all the gods!
His golden ringlets were a crown above his snowy forehead and crimson cheeks, and two wings whose feathers were like the soft white blossoms of the orchard sprang from his shoulders. In her joy at finding no cause for her fears, Psyche leaned over, tipping her lamp, that she might look more closely at Cupid's face. As she bent down, a drop of the burning oil fell on the god's shoulder. He opened his eyes, startled, and looked up at Psyche. Then, without saying a word, he spread his wide wings and flew out of the window.
Psyche tried to follow him, but she had no wings and fell to the ground.
For one brief moment Cupid stayed his flight and turned to see her lying there below him in the dust.
"Foolish Psyche," he said, "why did you repay my love in this way? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, could you not trust me? I will inflict no further punishment upon you than this, that I leave you forever, for love cannot live with suspicion." And with these words Cupid flew out of Psyche's sight.
That was the beginning of the long road of trouble Psyche had to follow. She wandered day and night, without food or rest, in search of Cupid. One day she saw a magnificent temple set upon the brow of a lofty hill and she toiled the long way up to it, saying to herself, 
"Perhaps my love inhabits here."
When Psyche reached the top of the hill and entered the temple, she saw heaps of corn, some in sheaves and others in loose ears, and there was barley mingled with it. There were sickles and rakes and all the other instruments of the harvest scattered about in great confusion as if the reapers, at the end of the sultry day, had left them in this disorder.
In spite of her sorrow, Psyche could not bear to see this disarray and she began trying to set the place in order. She worked so busily that she did not see Ceres, whose temple it was, enter. Turning at last, Psyche saw the goddess of the harvest, wearing her fruit trimmed garments and standing at her side.
"Poor Psyche!" she said pityingly. "But it is possible for you to find a way to the abode of the gods where Cupid has his home. Go and surrender yourself to Venus and try by your own works to win her forgiveness and, perhaps, her favor."
So Psyche obeyed this command of Ceres, although it took a great deal of courage, and she travelled to the temple of Venus in Thebes where the goddess received her in anger.
"The only way by which you can merit the favor of the gods, unfortunate Psyche," she said, "is by your own efforts. I, myself, am going to make a trial of your housewifely skill to see if you are industrious and dilligent."
With these words Venus conducted Psyche to a storehouse connected with her temple where there was an enormous quantity of grain laid up; beans, lentils, barley, wheat and the tiny seeds of the millet which Venus had stored to feed her pigeons.
"Separate all these grains," the goddess said to Psyche, "putting those of the same kind in a pile, and see that you finish before evening."
Then she left Psyche who was in consternation at the impossible task spread before her.
Psyche dipped her fingers into the golden heap gathering up a handful to sort the grains, but it took her a long time and the grain lay about her on every side like a yellow river. The grains she held were less than a drop taken from its surface.
"I shall not be able to finish. I shall never see my husband again!"
Psyche moaned.
Still she worked on steadily and at last a little ant, a native of the fields, crawled across the floor and took compassion on the toiling Psyche. It was a king in its own domain and was followed by a host of its little red subjects. Grain by grain, they separated the seeds, helping to put them in their own piles, and when the work was accomplished they vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
When evening came Venus returned, breathing odors of nectar and crowned with roses, from a banquet of the gods. When she saw that Psyche's task was done, she scarcely believed her eyes.
"You must have had assistance," she said. "To-morrow you shall try a more difficult undertaking. Beyond my temple you will see a grassy meadow which stretches along the borders of the water. There you will find a flock of sheep with golden shining fleeces on their backs and grazing without a shepherd. Bring me a sample of their precious wool that you gather from each of the fleeces."
Psyche once more obeyed, but this was a test of her life as well as of her endurance. As she reached the meadow, the river god, whispering to her through the rushes, warned her.
"Do not venture among the flock while the sun shines on them," he told her. "In the heat of the rising sun, the rams burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp teeth. Wait until twilight, when you will find their woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees."
The compassion of the river god helped Psyche to do as Venus had commanded her and she returned to the temple in the evening with her arms full of golden fleece.
Still Venus was not satisfied.
"I have a third task for you," she told the weary Psyche. "Take this box to the realm of Pluto and give it to Proserpine saying to her, 'My mistress, Venus, desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in tending her son whom Psyche burned she has lost some of her own.' And make all possible haste, for I must use it before I appear next in the circle of the gods on Mount Olympus."
Psyche felt that now her destruction was surely at hand. It was a dangerous road that led to the dark, underground kingdom of Pluto and there were deadly dangers on the way. But Psyche was finding a new courage with each of the difficulties that she had to encounter, and she set out with the box. She passed safely by Cerberus, Pluto's three headed watch dog. She prevailed upon Charon, the ferryman, to take her across the black river and wait for her while she begged Proserpine to fill the box. Then she started back to the light again.
All would have gone well with Psyche if she had not grown curious. That was why her road to the dwelling place of the gods was so long and difficult. Psyche was always mixing up a little bit of earth with her good intentions. Having come so far successfully with her dangerous task, she wanted to open the box.
"I would take only the least bit of this beauty from Venus," Psyche thought, "to make myself more fair for Cupid if I ever behold him again."
So she carefully opened the box, but there was nothing in it of beauty at all. It was a potion that caused Psyche to fall beside the road in a sleep which seemed to have no waking. She did not stir, or breathe, or remember.
It was there that love, in the form of Cupid found Psyche. He was healed of his wound, and he could not bear her absence any longer. He flew through a crack in the window of the palace of Venus and made his way to earth and straight to the spot where Psyche lay. He gathered the deadly sleep from her body and put it fast inside the box again. Then he touched her lightly with one of his arrows and she woke.
"Again you have almost perished because of your curiosity," he said as Psyche reached up her arms to him "but perform exactly this task which my mother asked of you and I will attend to the rest."
Then Cupid, as swift as a bird flies, returned to Mount Olympus and pleaded with Jupiter for a welcome for Psyche. Jupiter consented at last to have this daughter of earth admitted to the family of the gods and Mercury was sent to bring her and offer her the cup of ambrosial nectar that would make her one of the immortals.
It is said that at the moment when Psyche completed her tasks and took her departure for Mount Olympus a winged creature, the butterfly, that had never been seen before on earth, arose from a garden and flew on golden wings up toward the sun. So it was thought that the story of Psyche was the story of the butterfly who bursts its gray house of the cocoon and rises, with a new beauty and the power of wings, toward the sky. And the Greeks had still another name for Psyche whom neither her troubles or the sleep of Pluto could keep from the abode of the gods when Love pleaded for her. They spoke of her as the Soul.
HOW MELAMPOS FED THE SERPENT.
There was a hollow oak tree in front of the house of Melampos in Greece and inside it was a nest of serpents.
Melampos was a farmer, skilful in raising fruits and grains and full of love for everything that lived out of doors. He would not so much as crush an ant hurrying home to its hill with a grain of sand, and although he did not particularly like snakes he saw no harm in these that had made themselves a home in a tree that no one wanted.
"They will do us no hurt unless we disturb them," Melampos told his servants. "Let them alone and perhaps, when the weather is warmer, they will take their way off to the neighboring marsh."
But Melampos' servants were not so sure as he of the harmlessness of the serpents.
"Our master is growing old and child like," they said to each other.
"The next time he drives to the city with a load of grain we will get rid of the nest of vipers."
So that was what they did. In Melampos' absence they fired the nest of the serpents with a torch and burned it up completely, as they thought.
But when Melampos returned that afternoon and sat down under his arbor to rest and eat his supper of bread and grapes, he saw a pair of bright black eyes peering up at him from the grass. Then he spied a round green head raised above a long green body. It was one of the young serpents that had not been hurt when the nest was burned and had come to the master of the place for protection.
Melampos looked cautiously around to see that no one was watching him.
"If any of the servants see me, they will think me out of my senses," he said to himself, "but I am sorry for this little creature and would befriend it." Then, seeing that he was quite unobserved, Melampos broke off a piece of his bread and threw the crumbs to the young serpent. It devoured them to the last one and then glided off so silently that it left no trail except a long line of gently moving grasses.
The next day the serpent came and the next, always hungry and always lifting its little head and looking at Melampos in its odd, bright way.
One day as Melampos broke his bread as usual to share it with the serpent, he heard a voice speaking to him.
"The gods have been watching your kindness, Melampos," it said, "and have rewarded you in the way you will like best. They have given you the power of understanding the tongues of the wild."
Melampos looked all about him, but there was not another mortal within sight. Then his eyes caught those of the serpent and he suddenly realized that it had been its voice which he had heard. That was the beginning of strange experiences for Melampos upon whom the gods had conferred so wonderful a gift.
The serpent never returned after that day, but that very same evening a tree toad spoke to Melampos.
"Water your olive trees well around the roots, Melampos," it said, "for there is a season of drought approaching."
That was an excellent warning, because the farmer had a grove of young trees that needed very tender care. Melampos sprayed the trees and soaked the roots and felt very thankful to the tree toad for its advice.
After a few days of dry weather Melampos was on his way to the city when a grasshopper spoke to him from the side of the road.
"Turn back, Melampos, and gather your sheaves of wheat into your storehouse," the grasshopper said, "for Jupiter is about to send a thunderbolt down to the earth."
That was exactly what happened. Melampos had just time to reach his grain field and order his men to put the ripe sheaves safely under cover when the sky grew black and the thunder rolled along the mountain tops.
A high wind blew and the rain was heavy, but Melampos had saved his harvest.
All outdoors talked to Melampos after that, and it was very pleasant indeed, for he had no boys and girls of his own to keep him company. If he sat down to rest on a bank of moss in the forest, he was at once surrounded by friends. A little wild bee would light on a branch in front of him and tell him where he might find its sweet comb dripping with honey nearby. A butterfly would poise on his rough, soil stained hand and tell him where he would be able to see a bed of yellow daffodils beside a brook. Or a bird in a nearby bush would sing to him of the gay doings of Pan and the dryads and tell him the road to take to their haunts farther and deeper in the woods.
Melampos had never had such a good time in his life. He was an excellent husbandman and managed to make his farm pay well every year, but he cared very much more for this friendship of outdoors than he did for the hoards of food each harvest gave him. And, more and more, he came to stay in the woods and fields, holding conversation with the insects and the wild animals.
One harvest season Melampos was returning from the market with a large purse of gold pieces that had just been paid him for the sale of his summer wheat. He was taking his way through a deserted path of the forest where he hoped he might hear the echo, at least, of the merry pipes of Pan. He had not a thought or care in the world when, in an instant, he was laid low on the ground from a blow on his head, his gold was snatched away from him, and he was bound so tightly that he could not move. Melampos had been set upon by a band of robbers who threw him over the back of a horse and made off with him into the recesses of the forest.
It was not that peaceful, sylvan grove of the forest that Pan and his friends inhabited, but a dark, gloomy part where it was so still that even the sound of a twig falling to the ground seemed as loud as the splintering of an arrow, and no one ever passed by. The robbers put Melampos in an underground passage of a prison-like fortress which they had built for themselves. From beam to floor the fortress was built all of oak planks so old and thick and so completely covered with ivy on the outside that it looked like part of the forest itself.
Melampos had only a slit in the wall for a window, and he never saw his captors save when they tossed him some dried crusts once a day. He could hear them, though, counting their stolen coin and rattling it about.
Then he heard the sound of clinking armor and the occasional clashing of swords.
"They are planning to kill me," he thought.
He looked longingly at the narrow chink in his prison wall, hardly large enough to let a sunbeam through.
"If I could but beckon to a wood pigeon and tell it my plight, I should be able to send a message to my friends by it," he sighed, "or I could ask the woodpecker who can bore through wood to try and widen my window so that I might escape."
Just then Melampos heard a rustling sound in the heavy beam of the ceiling of the room where he was imprisoned and then a small voice spoke to him.
"We could teach you better than any other creatures how to escape," it said. "For years this forest has belonged to us, small as we are, and in a very short time now it will return to the earth from which the trees that built it came."
Melampos was amazed. He looked in all the corners of the room but could see no one. Then the voice went on.
"No wood, or men who live in shelters made of wood are safe from us. We have bored the beams and timbers of this fortress in a thousand places until they are hollow and ready to fall."
Suddenly Melampos discovered the source of the voice. Through a knothole in a beam above his head a wood worm peered down at him. With its companions it had eaten the planks that made the fortress until it was no safer than a house of paper.
"We are all doomed," Melampos told one of the robbers who brought him his food that night.
"Doomed; what do you mean by that?" the robber asked in terror, for like most of his kind he was nothing but a coward at heart.
Melampos showed him the decayed wood, hollow, and riddled with holes, and the man called his companions to see their danger. They decided that they must flee from the fortress at once, and they decided to give Melampos his freedom. It would not have been safe to stay in the fortress another season, for almost as soon as the winter storms came it crumbled like a house of sand, and the ants and the crickets used it to make themselves winter shelters.
Melampos went back to his farm and the pleasant conversation of the insects, the birds, and his four-footed friends. He was the first mortal to have such friends, but there were others who followed him and found happiness, also, through being kind to little wild creatures.
HOW A HUNTRESS BECAME A BEAR.
Although Juno was the queen of the gods she had a failing that is common to mortals. She was very jealous, and particularly of any maiden of Earth whom she fancied might sometime be given a place by Jupiter among the great family of the gods on Mount Olympus. As soon as Juno saw Callisto, a beautiful huntress of the forests of Arcadia, she disliked her.
Perhaps Juno would have liked to be free to roam through the woods where Pan played his music for dancing and the Dryads sported from one season to another as Callisto did. The goddess may have envied the huntress her happy, free life with no royal duties to interfere with her daily chase of the deer or any heavy crown to keep the breezes from tossing her long dark hair. Callisto reverenced Jupiter and Juno alike, with no thought that she might be arousing the displeasure of the goddess, but one day a strange and fearful thing happened to her.
She had just raised her bow to her shoulder ready to shoot an arrow as straight as a dart through the green path of the forest when it suddenly struck her hand and she fell to the moss upon her hands and knees. She tried to reach out her arms in supplication but they had become thick and heavy and were covered with long black hair. Her hands grew rounded, were armed with crooked claws and served her for feet. Her voice, which had been so sweet that it charmed the birds when she called to them, changed to a terrifying growl.
Callisto raised herself as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg mercy of the gods and uttering frightful roars as she bemoaned her fate.
She had always been obliged to defend herself from the lions and wolves that haunted the forest and she felt that she would be at their mercy now. All at once, though, she understood what had happened to her. She, herself, was now no longer a mortal but a wild beast. Juno had persuaded Jupiter to change Callisto to the first bear.
She had never liked to be out in the wood at night, but now she had no shelter and had to roam through the darkness, pursued often by the same wild beasts whom it had been her custom to hunt before. She fled from her own dogs in terror and was in hourly terror of the same arrows which she had formerly aimed so straight. In the winter Callisto crawled into some hollow log or dug a cave for herself that she might keep alive during the season of the North Wind's reign, and when spring came she crawled out, lean and weak, to search for the wild bee's comb and the first juicy berries of the juniper.
One day a boy saw the bear as he was out hunting. Callisto saw him at the same time and realized that he was her own son, Arcas, now grown to be a tall youth and taking his part in the chase as his mother had so many seasons before. Callisto forgot her changed form in her great joy at seeing her son, and she arose to her hind feet and hastened toward him holding out her paws to embrace him. The boy, alarmed, raised his hunting spear and ran to meet the bear and thrust its point through her heart. Callisto's son would have killed her if Jupiter had not, just then, looked down on the forest from his throne and felt a sudden pity for the tragedy he had brought about.
The gods had made a long road in the sky that led to the palace of the Sun. Any one may see this road on a clear night, for it stretches across the face of the sky and is known as the Milky Way. The palaces of the illustrious gods stood on either side of the road and a little farther back were placed the homes of the lesser deities.
At the very moment that Arcas, his spear raised, rushed upon Callisto, two new comers appeared in the sky near the road of the gods. They had the form of a Great Bear and a Little Bear, but their bodies were made of brightly shining stars. The mighty Jupiter had transformed Callisto and her son into these two constellations.
How enraged Juno was when she found it out! She descended to the sea and told her troubles to Oceanus, a giant of the race of Titans who ruled the waters at that time.
"Do you wonder, Oceanus," Juno cried, "why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly plains and seek your depths? It is because my authority has been set aside. I shall be supplanted among my fellow gods, for Callisto, the bear, has been taken up to the skies and given a place among the stars. Who can deny but that she may not occupy my throne next!"
"What would you have me do about it?" old Oceanus asked, a little puzzled as to why Juno had consulted him.
"I forbade Callisto to keep her human form and my will has been unjustly set aside," Juno replied. "Now that she has an abode on the road to heaven she will be able to take any form she desires and may come to you for help in her attempt to steal my throne. I command you to never allow the stars of her constellation to touch the waters."
Oceanus called a council of the other powers of the waters and they assented to Juno's decree. One after another the stars rose and set, touching the sea in their courses, but the Great Bear and the Little Bear moved ceaselessly round and round in the sky, never sinking to rest as the other stars did beneath the ocean. Juno had thought that this would be a punishment for them but as it turned out it was a kind of reward.
Because the Great Bear and the Little Bear were always to be seen in their changeless, shining course, people who were obliged to travel at night, and particularly those who were at sea, grew to depend upon them as a means of finding their way in the darkness. The last star in the tail of the Little Bear indicated the north and was known after a while as the Pole Star. The ancients called it also the Star of Arcadia, for it helped so many mariners to find their way home across the perilous waters.
It had happened to Juno, as it often happens to jealous people to-day, that she had not hurt Callisto in the least but had brought her a great deal of honor.
THE ADVENTURE OF GLAUCUS.
Glaucus, the fisherman, rubbed his eyes to find out if he was not dreaming. He had just drawn in his net to land and had emptied it, ready to sort the fish that lay, a large haul, all over the grass. But a strange thing was happening to them. Of a sudden, the fishes began to revive and move their fins exactly as if they were in the water. Then, as Glaucus looked at them in astonishment, the fishes one and all moved off to the water, plunged in, and swam away.
The spot where Glaucus fished was a beautiful island in the river, but a solitary place, for it was inhabited only by him. It was not used to pasture cattle even, or visited by anyone. No one was there to work sorcery with his haul. Glaucus did not know what to make of the happening.
"Can it be that the river-god is working this marvel?" he wondered to himself. Then it occurred to him that there might be some secret power in the thick green leaves that covered the island among the grasses.
"What may not be the power of this herb?" he asked himself, pulling up a handful of the leaves and tasting one.
Scarcely had the juices of the plant touched Glaucus' tongue than a strange feeling of restlessness filled him, and he was overcome by an unconquerable thirst. He could not keep away from the water but ran to the edge of the river where he had fished for so many years, plunged in and swam away toward the sea.
It was a wonderful, free kind of experience for Glaucus who had never known any life but that of hauling in his nets and then casting them again. As he followed the swiftly flowing currents, the waters of a hundred rivers flowed over him, washing away all that was mortal of the fisherman, and he came at last to the sea. A marvellous sight met him there. The surf that beat against a rocky shore became suddenly smooth, as a chariot drawn by horses shod with brass and having long floating manes of gold rolled toward Glaucus over the surface of the sea. A giant who held a three-pointed spear for crushing rocks and blew loud trumpet blasts from a great curved shell, drove the chariot toward Glaucus and then stopped, inviting him to ride down to the depths of the ocean.
It was Neptune, the god of the sea, and Glaucus discovered that he felt quite at home in the chariot. He was no longer a dweller of the earth, but had become a citizen of that boundless country that lay beneath the waves. The fisherman was completely changed in form. His hair was sea green and trailed behind him through the water. His shoulders broadened, and his limbs took the shape and use of a fish's tail. He had never known such freedom and joy as now when he spent whole days doing nothing but following the ebb and flow of the tides and learning the use of his newly found fins as a bird tries its wings on first leaving the nest.
But Glaucus still retained powers of thinking and of action which are denied the inhabitants of the sea. One day he saw the beautiful maiden, Scylla, one of the water nymphs, come out from a sheltered nook on the shore and seat herself on a rock, dipping her hands in the water and bringing up sea-shells for twining in the water weeds to make a necklace. Glaucus had never seen so fair a creature as Scylla and he moved toward her through the waves, rising at last and stopping at the place where she sat as he murmured his affection for her above the singing of the sea.
But Scylla was very much terrified at the sight of this strange personage, half youth and half fish. She turned to run as soon as she saw him and did not stop until she had gained a cliff that overlooked the sea. Here she waited for a moment and turned around to look in wonder as Glaucus raised himself upon a rock and the sun touched his green hair and scaly covering until he shone in its light. He called to Scylla.
"Do not flee from me, maiden! I am no monster or even a sea-animal, but have been transformed from a poor fisherman to a god of the sea." Then Glaucus told Scylla the whole story of his amazing adventures and tried to describe to her the kingdom of Neptune with its playing dolphins, the castles of rose colored and white coral, and the never ending music of the waters.
"Come with me, and descend to Neptune's realm," he begged, but Scylla would not remain to even listen. She fled and left nothing to console Glaucus but her scattered sea shells lying in bright heaps on the rocks.
Glaucus did not pursue Scylla but he felt that he could not give her up.
He remembered the strange charm of the sea that there had been in the herbs on his native island, and he wondered if he might, by chance, find some such power for giving the nymph, Scylla, the desire for the sea that had drawn him to Neptune's kingdom. But Glaucus could not explore his little fishing island, for it was a long way off and he had forgotten its direction even. So he made what proved to be an almost disastrous decision. He set out for the island of Circe, the enchantress, to ask her help in winning Scylla.
Circe was, in the beginning, a daughter of the sun but she had put her light of learning to wicked uses and had made herself into a powerful sorceress. She lived in a palace embowered with trees and those were the only signs of vegetation on her island. But if a shipwrecked crew came up the shores, hoping to find a welcome and timber for building a new bark, they were immediately surrounded by lions, tigers and wolves who had formerly been men but had been changed by Circe's magic to the form of beasts.
The brave hero of Greece, Ulysses, came in his travels to Circe's isle once, and his crew heard the sounds of lovely music coming from the castle in the trees and the tones of a maiden's sweet singing. They had endured the raging of the sea and all its perils for many days and they hastened to the palace where Circe, who had the appearance of a princess, greeted them and ordered a feast for them. As they ate, she touched them one by one with her wand and the men were all changed to swine. They kept the thoughts of men, but they had the head, body, voice and bristles of these despised creatures, and Circe shut them up in sties and fed them with acorns. Ulysses persuaded the sorceress to release his men, but he, the hero, was not able to resist her charms and remained in her palace a year, his work and country forgotten.
Surely Glaucus was setting out on a mad errand when he decided to go to Circe. But he persisted and landed on her island. He told her how Scylla had looked upon him with terror, and he begged to have a charm by means of which he might make Scylla love the sea as the herb had made him a subject of Neptune.
"Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the ocean and sea weed on the mountain peaks than I will cease to love Scylla and her alone," Glaucus told Circe.
The enchantress looked on Glaucus and she began to admire him as much as Scylla had been frightened by him. He was really quite a distinguished looking personage, for he had the power to take on human form when he wished, and his trailing robes of green seaweed looked almost kingly.
"I will brew a potion as you wish with my own hands and carry it to Scylla," Circe told Glaucus, but she had decided to work harm on the innocent nymph in order to keep Glaucus forever on her island.
Circe's potion was mixed of the most poisonous plants which grew on her island. She blended them with deadly skill and then took her way to the coast of Sicily where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the coast where Scylla loved to come in the middle of the day when the sun was high to bathe in the cool waters. Circe poured her poison into the clear blue bay and muttered incantations of mighty power over it. Then she returned to her island.
Scylla came that day as usual when the sun was high and plunged into the waters up to her waist. What was her horror to discover that she was sinking to her shoulders and then to her head. The waters covered her before anyone heard her frightened calls for help and where she had stepped so happily into the waters which she loved, there were only a few ripples on the surface of the bay and soon even they were gone.
Circe's charm had taken effect and the lovable Scylla had been carried down to Neptune's kingdom, but not as Glaucus had desired, for she was without motion or sight or speech.
Glaucus, meanwhile, forgot Scylla in the enchantment of Circe's island and remained in the waters near there, taking human form when he wished and enjoying the luxuries of her palace. Perhaps he might never have remembered that he was a subject of Neptune if his attention had not been attracted one day to the wild beasts which prowled about the island. They were speaking to each other with the voices of men and bewailing the fate by which they had been led there from their ships and brought into Circe's power.
Glaucus, hearing them, understood what might be in store for him. He began to hate the powers of the wicked enchantress and the memory came to him of Scylla as she had appeared to him on the rock, her hands full of bright shells. He plunged into the water and was soon a long distance from the fatal island.
Glaucus began then to search for Scylla through the many leagues of the ocean but he could not find her. That was because Scylla, through the design of Circe, had gone down as mortals do and been drowned. The sea was full of such, and as Glaucus wandered about among the gardens of sea anemones and along the shell strewn roads of Neptune's kingdom, he felt a new desire in his heart. He knew how those mortals felt whose loved ones had been taken away from them by the sea, and he began using his power to restore the drowned to life again. For a thousand years Glaucus went up and down through the sea restoring mortals who had loved to each other again. And in all his following of the tides he was searching for Scylla.
After a thousand years had passed and it seemed to the gods that Glaucus had expiated the wrong he had done in appealing to Circe, he found Scylla in the green depths. And the nymphs say that the two lived always happily together in a coral palace with a sea garden of anemones and green water plants all about it.
THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE.
Jason was having a boat built in which he planned to set sail on a kind of pirate expedition. He was going as far as the eastern shore of the Black Sea to try and capture and bring home the Golden Fleece.
This golden fleece was a prize indeed, for it was a good deal like the magic carpet in a fairy tale. In very ancient times Mercury, the god with the winged shoes, had given the queen of Thessaly a ram whose fleece was of pure gold. There came a time when the queen found it necessary to send her son away from the kingdom for safety as quickly and secretly as possible. So she sent him on the back of this ram, who leaped into the air, crossed the strait that divides Europe and Asia, and landed the boy without accident in Colchis in the Black Sea.
Ever since then its fleece of gold had hung in a sacred grove of Colchis guarded by a dragon who never slept. It was said that the fleece could carry one through the air as far as he wished to go, and its gold was the finest and purest in the world. A great many adventurers had equipped expeditions for getting the golden fleece, but so far none of them had been successful. Jason had a different idea about it, however, than any youth of Greece who had set out for the fleece before. He felt that it was his right, in a way, because he was going to be a king if he could bring it home.
Jason's uncle, Pelias, was the king of a part of Thessaly. Because the golden fleece had belonged in Thessaly in the first place, Pelias had an idea that any king in Thessaly who could get it might keep it, and enjoy its magic powers. But Pelias did not want the trouble of going for it.
He was willing to give up his throne to the lad, Jason, if he could bring the golden fleece home. And Jason was quite willing to be the head of such a pirate expedition with the promise of this advantage at the end.
Jason did not even build his ship, but paid a vast sum of money to have it done for him. It was a stupendous task in those days to make a boat that would weather a sea voyage. About the only boats that the Greeks had were small ones shaped like canoes and hollowed out from the trunks of trees. Jason had decided to take fifty of his friends with him, and that meant the building of a larger boat than had ever been launched before from Thessaly. A gigantic tree had to be cut down and gouged and shaped by hand. New looms had to be set working to weave wide enough cloth for the sails. For months the sound of axes and chisels echoed along the beach, until at last this great boat, the Argo, was finished and launched, and Jason brought his friends, whom he called the Argonauts, to board her.
Jason chose his crew well. They were all fine, well born youths of Greece, and everyone of them made a name for himself later on. Hercules was of the Argonauts, and there has never been any such strength as his.
There was Theseus, who could move rocks and capture robbers single-handed. There was also Orpheus, the son of Apollo, who could tame, wild beasts with the beautiful music of his lyre. Nestor, who grew up to be a famous warrior of Greece, went with them. They seated themselves with their leader, Jason, in the ship, a whistling breeze filled her sails, and they shot swiftly before the wind toward Colchis.
It was a long voyage, but they reached this foreign shore with no serious mishap, leaped onto the bank, and went at once to the king of Colchis, demanding from him the golden fleece. The Argonauts thought in the pride of their youth that no one could resist them or refuse them anything, but the king looked serious over the matter.
"You must earn the fleece, Jason," he said. "Nothing so valuable can be had for only the asking. Are you brave enough to yoke my bulls to a plough and plant a field full of dragon's teeth?"
Jason gasped. He knew these bulls of Colchis by reputation, although it had never occurred to him that he might be called upon to harness and drive them. They had brazen teeth and breathed fire from their nostrils that consumed whatever it touched. The sound of their breathing was like the roar of a furnace, and the smoke of their breath was suffocating.
In spite of his fear, though, Jason had another thought. The king had said that the fleece must be earned, that nothing so golden could be had for the asking. That was really true, Jason thought, and he began to feel a great courage. He was growing into the hero that he always had been at heart, being a youth of Greece.
"Send out your bulls," he said to the king of Colchis.
Something happened then that is very apt to happen when anyone makes up his mind to dare a seemingly impossible deed. Help came to Jason. Medea, the daughter of the king of Colchis, gave Jason a charm that protected him from fire. The bulls rushed into the field toward Jason, sending forth their burning breath like dragons, but Jason advanced boldly to meet them. His friends, the Argonauts, watched him in terror, but he went straight up to the bulls and his voice seemed to soothe their rage.
He stroked their necks fearlessly, slipped on the yoke and harnessed them to the plough.
Dragons' teeth were a strange kind of seed to plant. As Jason ploughed straight furrows and dropped in the teeth, the people of the kingdom and the Argonauts gathered at the edge of the field to watch, and it came to his mind that perhaps the king was making a joke of him. There would have been some sense in having that pair of fiery bulls use their great strength to plough in corn and wheat, Jason thought, as he plodded up and down the field. But suddenly a cry from the crowd startled Jason and he looked back. A strange sight met his eyes.
The clods of earth that covered the teeth of the dragon began to stir, and the bright points of spears thrust their way up through to the surface. Helmets with nodding plumes appeared next, and after them came the shoulders and arms and limbs of men. In a moment the field was alive with armed warriors advancing upon Jason.
He was only one hero against all of this foe, but the sight put the same courage that had come to him into the heart of each one of the Argonauts and they rushed to help their leader. Jason led valiantly against the warriors, but there would have been no hope for him and the Greeks if his courage had not been rewarded a second time. Medea sent a charmed sword to the hero. He threw it into the ranks of the warriors and they suddenly ceased attacking the Greeks, fell to fighting among themselves, and were destroyed.
There was still another danger for Jason to face, the dragon who guarded the fleece with eyes that never closed. His new courage was equal to it.
He entered the grove that sheltered the golden fleece, took the glittering blanket from the oak tree where it hung, escaped the dragon and embarked with the Argonauts for the return trip to Greece.
The people proclaimed Jason king when he and the rest of these young heroes of Greece landed in Thessaly. They chose him for his valor, not for his spoils, and it seemed to add to his new glory that he had started out an adventurer and returned a victor in a great fight.
The strangest part of the story is that no one knows what became of the golden fleece after Jason and the Argonauts brought it home with them.
No one seems to have ever heard of it again. Perhaps even such a treasure as that was grew dull and lost its value in comparison with the golden prize of courage in achievement that the Argonauts found and kept all the rest of their lives.
MEDEA'S CALDRON.
If a boy of to-day could have lived in the days of the ancient Greeks, learning by means of self restraint and all the arts of soldiery to be a hero in warfare, it is possible that his captain would have told him a strange story as part of his training. The boy would have wondered why he had to hear such a grim tale, and what it all meant, for it was one of the myths which rivalled almost all the rest in its hidden meaning.
It was the story of Medea, the dark sorceress, and how she worked her art on Aeson, the father of Jason.
Jason brought Medea home to Thessaly with him at the same time that he brought the fleece of gold whose capture had been his great adventure.
She was the princess who had helped him with her sorcery to brave a fire breathing dragon, but she was ill suited to the court of Greece, never having taken any pleasure in the arts that most maidens delighted in, needlework, weaving and the other crafts needful in making a home.
Instead Medea was wont to flee from the feasts and the games of the court and sit by herself on a cliff beside the sea, her long black hair blowing about her pale face and her lips muttering incantations to the wild accompaniment that the waves sang.
She had a fondness for the hero, Jason, though, in her own strange way, and pride in the mighty deeds he had dared. She heard him speak one day of his greatest wish.
"There is only one thing lacking in my triumph and the homage that the nation is paying me," Jason told Medea, "I would that my father were able to take part in the rejoicing but he is growing daily more feeble and helpless. I would willingly give enough years from my life to make him young and strong again."
Medea replied nothing in answer to this wish, but to herself she said, 
"My power has been mighty in the aid of this hero and I will try it still farther. If my sorcery avails me anything, the life of Jason's father shall be lengthened without the cost of the sacrifice of any of the youth's own years."
So, when the moon was next in the full, Medea made her way silently and alone out of the palace when it was the dead of night and all creatures slept. She moved swiftly along the fields and groves murmuring strange words as she went, and addressing an incantation to the moon and to the stars. There was a goddess, named Hecate, who was supposed to represent the darkness and terror of the night as Diana represented its beauties.
At dusk she began her wandering over the earth, seen only by dogs who howled at her approach. Medea followed Hecate, imploring her help, and she also called to Tellus, that goddess of the earth by whose power those herbs that could be brewed for enchantment were grown. And Medea invoked the aid also of the gods of the woods and caverns, of valleys and mountains, of rivers and lakes, and of the winds and vapors.
As Medea took her enchanted way through the night, the stars shone with an unusual brilliancy and presently a chariot, drawn by flying serpents descended to meet her through the air. Medea ascended in it and made her way to distant regions where the most powerful plants grew and brought them back before the day's first light for her uses. Nine nights Medea rode away in the chariot of the flying serpents, and in all that time she did not go within the doors of her palace or shelter herself under any roof, or speak to a human being.
Hebe was the goddess of youth and one of the cup bearers of the gods.
When Medea had gathered the herbs which she needed for her potion, she built a fire in front of a nearby temple to Hebe and over the fire she hung a very wide and deep caldron. In this caldron she mixed the herbs with seeds and flowers that gave out a bitter juice, stones from the far distant east, and sands from the encircling shore of the ocean. There were other ingredients, also, in this brew; a screech owl's head and wings, hoar frost gathered by moonlight, fragments of the shells of tortoises who of all creatures are the most long lived, and the head and beak of a crow, the birds that outlives nine generations of men.
Medea boiled all these ingredients together to get them ready for the deed she proposed to do, stirring them with a dried branch from an olive tree. And, strange to say, the branch did not burn, but when the sorceress lifted it out it instantly turned as green as it had been in the spring, and in a short time it was covered with leaves and a luxuriant growth of olives. The potion in the caldron bubbled and simmered and sometimes rose so high as it boiled that it spilled over the edge and down on the ground. But wherever the drops touched the earth, new green grass shot up and there were flowers as bright and fragrant as the most prized blossoms of the May.
The sorceress wished to further test her brew, though, and she put an old sheep, one of the most ancient of the flock, in the seething potion.
Instead of being cooked, the creature was quite unhurt and when Medea removed the cover, a little new lamb, soft and white, jumped out and ran frisking away to the meadow.
So Medea knew that her spell was ready and she commanded that Jason bring his aged father, Aeson, to her.
"I would like to know him," she explained, "and hear from his lips of the deeds you did in your youth."
Then Jason, all unsuspecting, sent for his father and conducted him to the spot near the temple of Hebe where Medea waited. And as soon as she saw Aeson, Medea threw him into a deep sleep by means of a charm and placed him on a bed of herbs where he lay with no apparent breath or life in him.
"Wicked sorceress, you have killed my father whom I so greatly loved,"
Jason cried.
Then, even as he spoke, Medea advanced toward the old man and wounded him deeply, so that all his blood poured out. After this she dipped into her caldron and poured the charmed brew into Aeson's mouth and bathed his wound with it.
As soon as he had imbibed it and felt its wonderful power, Aeson's hair and beard lost their whiteness and became as black as they had been in his youth. His paleness and emaciation disappeared, for his veins were full of new blood and his limbs were vigorous and robust. Aeson was amazed at himself as he ran toward Jason, for he was as he remembered himself to have been two score years before. The sorceress Medea had made his years drop away from him.
It would be very pleasant to end this story by saying that Medea always used her art for a good purpose as she did in this case, but that was not what happened. She did all manner of things that were wrong, such as riding her serpent-drawn chariot in the pursuit of revenge, sending a poisoned dress to a bride, and setting fire to a palace. What a strange, unusual kind of a story is this one of Medea!
What did it mean to the young Greeks who heard it?
It meant for them just what it means for us to-day. Medea and her caldron signified those times of cruel war and change that come to every nation. They may result in evil. But sometimes, when the world has become old and feeble, it may be made young and strong again through bitter pains, as Aeson was made young through Medea's caldron of such bitter brewing.
HOW A GOLDEN APPLE CAUSED A WAR.
No one, as far as could be found out, had invited Eris to the party.
Indeed everyone would have desired to keep her away, for it was a very great wedding feast attended by both the immortals and men, and Eris was the goddess of discontent.
There was a beautiful nymph of the sea named Thetis whom even Jupiter had looked upon with favor, and she was given in marriage to a mortal, Peleus. The gathering was being held on Mount Olympus and just when the merrymaking was at its height and Ganymede, that comely Trojan youth whom Jupiter in the guise of an eagle had borne away to be the cupbearer of the gods, was offering his nectar to all, a golden apple fell in their midst.
It was very large and shone and glittered as if it had been made from skin to core of precious gold. Even the gods scrambled to grasp it, and for a moment they did not see who had thrown it. As Jupiter held the apple, though, and read an inscription on its cheek, "For the Fairest,"
the guests had a flying vision of Discord, riding away in her dark chariot from the feast she had chosen to make bitter. For that apple was to be the beginning of a war so long and so terrible that there had never been any other to equal it through all the centuries.
At once the goddesses began to quarrel among themselves as to which was fair enough to merit the gilded fruit. Juno, being the queen of the gods, demanded the golden apple as only her just due, and Minerva wanted it in addition to her treasure of wisdom. They appealed to the mighty Jupiter, but neither he or any of the other gods dared to decide this question and so a judge had to be found among the mortals upon earth.