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A Wonder Book and Tanglewood Tales, for Girls and Boys

by Nathaniel Hawthorne · English · Gutenberg #35377 · 671,591 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Wonder Book and Tanglewood Tales, for Girls and Boys

Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne

Illustrator: Maxfield Parrish


        
Release date: February 23, 2011 [eBook #35377]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WONDER BOOK AND TANGLEWOOD TALES, FOR GIRLS AND BOYS ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)









                            A WONDER BOOK

                                 AND

                           TANGLEWOOD TALES

                          FOR GIRLS AND BOYS

                        BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE


    WITH PICTURES BY
    MAXFIELD PARRISH

    NEW YORK
    DUFFIELD & COMPANY
    MCMX

    COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY

    THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.




[Illustration: JASON AND THE TALKING OAK

(From the original in the collection of Austin M. Purves, Esqu're
Philadelphia)]




Preface

The author has long been of opinion that many of the classical myths
were capable of being rendered into very capital reading for children.
In the little volume here offered to the public, he has worked up half a
dozen of them, with this end in view. A great freedom of treatment was
necessary to his plan; but it will be observed by every one who attempts
to render these legends malleable in his intellectual furnace, that they
are marvellously independent of all temporary modes and circumstances.
They remain essentially the same, after changes that would affect the
identity of almost anything else.

He does not, therefore, plead guilty to a sacrilege, in having sometimes
shaped anew, as his fancy dictated, the forms that have been hallowed by
an antiquity of two or three thousand years. No epoch of time can claim
a copyright in these immortal fables. They seem never to have been made;
and certainly, so long as man exists, they can never perish; but, by
their indestructibility itself, they are legitimate subjects for every
age to clothe with its own garniture of manners and sentiment, and to
imbue with its own morality. In the present version they may have lost
much of their classical aspect (or, at all events, the author has not
been careful to preserve it), and have, perhaps, assumed a Gothic or
romantic guise.

In performing this pleasant task,--for it has been really a task fit for
hot weather, and one of the most agreeable, of a literary kind, which
he ever undertook,--the author has not always thought it necessary to
write downward, in order to meet the comprehension of children. He has
generally suffered the theme to soar, whenever such was its tendency,
and when he himself was buoyant enough to follow without an effort.
Children possess an unestimated sensibility to whatever is deep or high,
in imagination or feeling, so long as it is simple, likewise. It is only
the artificial and the complex that bewilder them.

LENOX, _July 15, 1851_.




Contents


A Wonder Book for Girls and Boys


The Gorgon's Head

The Golden Touch

The Paradise of Children

The Three Golden Apples

The Miraculous Pitcher

The Chimaera


Tanglewood Tales


The Wayside--_Introductory_

The Minotaur

The Pygmies

The Dragon's Teeth

Circe's Palace

The Pomegranate Seeds

The Golden Fleece




Illustrations


JASON AND THE TALKING OAK

PANDORA

ATLAS

BELLEROPHON BY THE FOUNTAIN OF PIRENE

THE FOUNTAIN OF PIRENE

CADMUS SOWING THE DRAGON'S TEETH

CIRCE'S PALACE

PROSERPINA

JASON AND HIS TEACHER

THE ARGONAUTS IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE




A Wonder Book




THE GORGON'S HEAD


Tanglewood Porch

_Introductory to "The Gorgon's Head"_

Beneath the porch of the country-seat called Tanglewood, one fine
autumnal morning, was assembled a merry party of little folks, with a
tall youth in the midst of them. They had planned a nutting expedition,
and were impatiently waiting for the mists to roll up the hill-slopes,
and for the sun to pour the warmth of the Indian summer over the fields
and pastures, and into the nooks of the many-colored woods. There was a
prospect of as fine a day as ever gladdened the aspect of this beautiful
and comfortable world. As yet, however, the morning mist filled up the
whole length and breadth of the valley, above which, on a gently sloping
eminence, the mansion stood.

This body of white vapor extended to within less than a hundred yards of
the house. It completely hid everything beyond that distance, except a
few ruddy or yellow tree-tops, which here and there emerged, and were
glorified by the early sunshine, as was likewise the broad surface of
the mist. Four or five miles off to the southward rose the summit of
Monument Mountain, and seemed to be floating on a cloud. Some fifteen
miles farther away, in the same direction, appeared the loftier Dome of
Taconic, looking blue and indistinct, and hardly so substantial as the
vapory sea that almost rolled over it. The nearer hills, which bordered
the valley, were half submerged, and were specked with little
cloud-wreaths all the way to their tops. On the whole, there was so
much cloud, and so little solid earth, that it had the effect of a
vision.

The children above-mentioned, being as full of life as they could hold,
kept overflowing from the porch of Tanglewood, and scampering along the
gravel-walk, or rushing across the dewy herbage of the lawn. I can
hardly tell how many of these small people there were; not less than
nine or ten, however, nor more than a dozen, of all sorts, sizes, and
ages, whether girls or boys. They were brothers, sisters, and cousins,
together with a few of their young acquaintances, who had been invited
by Mr. and Mrs. Pringle to spend some of this delightful weather with
their own children, at Tanglewood. I am afraid to tell you their names,
or even to give them any names which other children have ever been
called by; because, to my certain knowledge, authors sometimes get
themselves into great trouble by accidentally giving the names of real
persons to the characters in their books. For this reason I mean to call
them Primrose, Periwinkle, Sweet Fern, Dandelion, Blue Eye, Clover,
Huckleberry, Cowslip, Squash-Blossom, Milkweed, Plantain, and Buttercup;
although, to be sure, such titles might better suit a group of fairies
than a company of earthly children.

It is not to be supposed that these little folks were to be permitted by
their careful fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, or grandparents, to
stray abroad into the woods and fields, without the guardianship of some
particularly grave and elderly person. Oh no, indeed! In the first
sentence of my book, you will recollect that I spoke of a tall youth,
standing in the midst of the children. His name--(and I shall let you
know his real name, because he considers it a great honor to have told
the stories that are here to be printed)--his name was Eustace Bright.
He was a student at Williams College, and had reached, I think, at this
period, the venerable age of eighteen years; so that he felt quite like
a grandfather towards Periwinkle, Dandelion, Huckleberry,
Squash-Blossom, Milkweed, and the rest, who were only half or a third as
venerable as he. A trouble in his eyesight (such as many students think
it necessary to have, nowadays, in order to prove their diligence at
their books) had kept him from college a week or two after the beginning
of the term. But, for my part, I have seldom met with a pair of eyes
that looked as if they could see farther or better than those of Eustace
Bright.

This learned student was slender, and rather pale, as all Yankee
students are; but yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as if
he had wings to his shoes. By the by, being much addicted to wading
through streamlets and across meadows, he had put on cowhide boots for
the expedition. He wore a linen blouse, a cloth cap, and a pair of green
spectacles, which he had assumed, probably, less for the preservation of
his eyes than for the dignity that they imparted to his countenance. In
either case, however, he might as well have let them alone; for
Huckleberry, a mischievous little elf, crept behind Eustace as he sat on
the steps of the porch, snatched the spectacles from his nose, and
clapped them on her own; and as the student forgot to take them back,
they fell off into the grass, and lay there till the next spring.

Now, Eustace Bright, you must know, had won great fame among the
children, as a narrator of wonderful stories; and though he sometimes
pretended to be annoyed, when they teased him for more, and more, and
always for more, yet I really doubt whether he liked anything quite so
well as to tell them. You might have seen his eyes twinkle, therefore,
when Clover, Sweet Fern, Cowslip, Buttercup, and most of their
playmates, besought him to relate one of his stories, while they were
waiting for the mist to clear up.

"Yes, Cousin Eustace," said Primrose, who was a bright girl of twelve,
with laughing eyes, and a nose that turned up a little, "the morning is
certainly the best time for the stories with which you so often tire out
our patience. We shall be in less danger of hurting your feelings, by
falling asleep at the most interesting points,--as little Cowslip and I
did last night!"

"Naughty Primrose," cried Cowslip, a child of six years old; "I did not
fall asleep, and I only shut my eyes, so as to see a picture of what
Cousin Eustace was telling about. His stories are good to hear at night,
because we can dream about them asleep; and good in the morning, too,
because then we can dream about them awake. So I hope he will tell us
one this very minute."

"Thank you, my little Cowslip," said Eustace; "certainly you shall have
the best story I can think of, if it were only for defending me so well
from that naughty Primrose. But, children, I have already told you so
many fairy tales, that I doubt whether there is a single one which you
have not heard at least twice over. I am afraid you will fall asleep in
reality, if I repeat any of them again."

"No, no, no!" cried Blue Eye, Periwinkle, Plantain, and half a dozen
others. "We like a story all the better for having heard it two or three
times before."

And it is a truth, as regards children, that a story seems often to
deepen its mark in their interest, not merely by two or three, but by
numberless repetitions. But Eustace Bright, in the exuberance of his
resources, scorned to avail himself of an advantage which an older
story-teller would have been glad to grasp at.

"It would be a great pity," said he, "if a man of my learning (to say
nothing of original fancy) could not find a new story every day, year in
and year out, for children such as you. I will tell you one of the
nursery tales that were made for the amusement of our great old
grandmother, the Earth, when she was a child in frock and pinafore.
There are a hundred such; and it is a wonder to me that they have not
long ago been put into picture-books for little girls and boys. But,
instead of that, old gray-bearded grandsires pore over them in musty
volumes of Greek, and puzzle themselves with trying to find out when,
and how, and for what they were made."

"Well, well, well, well, Cousin Eustace!" cried all the children at
once; "talk no more about your stories, but begin."

"Sit down, then, every soul of you," said Eustace Bright, "and be all as
still as so many mice. At the slightest interruption, whether from
great, naughty Primrose, little Dandelion, or any other, I shall bite
the story short off between my teeth, and swallow the untold part. But,
in the first place, do any of you know what a Gorgon is?"

"I do," said Primrose.

"Then hold your tongue!" rejoined Eustace, who had rather she would have
known nothing about the matter. "Hold all your tongues, and I shall tell
you a sweet pretty story of a Gorgon's head."

And so he did, as you may begin to read on the next page. Working up his
sophomorical erudition with a good deal of tact, and incurring great
obligations to Professor Anthon, he, nevertheless, disregarded all
classical authorities, whenever the vagrant audacity of his imagination
impelled him to do so.


The Gorgon's Head

Perseus was the son of Danae, who was the daughter of a king. And when
Perseus was a very little boy, some wicked people put his mother and
himself into a chest, and set them afloat upon the sea. The wind blew
freshly, and drove the chest away from the shore, and the uneasy billows
tossed it up and down; while Danae clasped her child closely to her
bosom, and dreaded that some big wave would dash its foamy crest over
them both. The chest sailed on, however, and neither sank nor was upset;
until, when night was coming, it floated so near an island that it got
entangled in a fisherman's nets, and was drawn out high and dry upon the
sand. The island was called Seriphus, and it was reigned over by King
Polydectes, who happened to be the fisherman's brother.

This fisherman, I am glad to tell you, was an exceedingly humane and
upright man. He showed great kindness to Danae and her little boy; and
continued to befriend them, until Perseus had grown to be a handsome
youth, very strong and active, and skilful in the use of arms. Long
before this time, King Polydectes had seen the two strangers--the mother
and her child--who had come to his dominions in a floating chest. As he
was not good and kind, like his brother the fisherman, but extremely
wicked, he resolved to send Perseus on a dangerous enterprise, in which
he would probably be killed, and then to do some great mischief to Danae
herself. So this bad-hearted king spent a long while in considering what
was the most dangerous thing that a young man could possibly undertake
to perform. At last, having hit upon an enterprise that promised to
turn out as fatally as he desired, he sent for the youthful Perseus.

The young man came to the palace, and found the king sitting upon his
throne.

"Perseus," said King Polydectes, smiling craftily upon him, "you are
grown up a fine young man. You and your good mother have received a
great deal of kindness from myself, as well as from my worthy brother
the fisherman, and I suppose you would not be sorry to repay some of
it."

"Please your Majesty," answered Perseus, "I would willingly risk my life
to do so."

"Well, then," continued the king, still with a cunning smile on his
lips, "I have a little adventure to propose to you; and, as you are a
brave and enterprising youth, you will doubtless look upon it as a great
piece of good luck to have so rare an opportunity of distinguishing
yourself. You must know, my good Perseus, I think of getting married to
the beautiful Princess Hippodamia; and it is customary, on these
occasions, to make the bride a present of some far-fetched and elegant
curiosity. I have been a little perplexed, I must honestly confess,
where to obtain anything likely to please a princess of her exquisite
taste. But, this morning, I flatter myself, I have thought of precisely
the article."

"And can I assist your Majesty in obtaining it?" cried Perseus, eagerly.

"You can, if you are as brave a youth as I believe you to be," replied
King Polydectes, with the utmost graciousness of manner. "The bridal
gift which I have set my heart on presenting to the beautiful Hippodamia
is the head of the Gorgon Medusa with the snaky locks; and I depend on
you, my dear Perseus, to bring it to me. So, as I am anxious to settle
affairs with the princess, the sooner you go in quest of the Gorgon, the
better I shall be pleased."

"I will set out to-morrow morning," answered Perseus.

"Pray do so, my gallant youth," rejoined the king. "And, Perseus, in
cutting off the Gorgon's head, be careful to make a clean stroke, so as
not to injure its appearance. You must bring it home in the very best
condition, in order to suit the exquisite taste of the beautiful
Princess Hippodamia."

Perseus left the palace, but was scarcely out of hearing before
Polydectes burst into a laugh; being greatly amused, wicked king that he
was, to find how readily the young man fell into the snare. The news
quickly spread abroad that Perseus had undertaken to cut off the head of
Medusa with the snaky locks. Everybody was rejoiced; for most of the
inhabitants of the island were as wicked as the king himself, and would
have liked nothing better than to see some enormous mischief happen to
Danae and her son. The only good man in this unfortunate island of
Seriphus appears to have been the fisherman. As Perseus walked along,
therefore, the people pointed after him, and made mouths, and winked to
one another, and ridiculed him as loudly as they dared.

"Ho, ho!" cried they; "Medusa's snakes will sting him soundly!"

Now, there were three Gorgons alive at that period; and they were the
most strange and terrible monsters that had ever been since the world
was made, or that have been seen in after days, or that are likely to be
seen in all time to come. I hardly know what sort of creature or
hobgoblin to call them. They were three sisters, and seem to have borne
some distant resemblance to women, but were really a very frightful and
mischievous species of dragon. It is, indeed, difficult to imagine what
hideous beings these three sisters were. Why, instead of locks of hair,
if you can believe me, they had each of them a hundred enormous snakes
growing on their heads, all alive, twisting, wriggling, curling, and
thrusting out their venomous tongues, with forked stings at the end!
The teeth of the Gorgons were terribly long tusks; their hands were made
of brass; and their bodies were all over scales, which, if not iron,
were something as hard and impenetrable. They had wings, too, and
exceedingly splendid ones, I can assure you; for every feather in them
was pure, bright, glittering, burnished gold, and they looked very
dazzlingly, no doubt, when the Gorgons were flying about in the
sunshine.

But when people happened to catch a glimpse of their glittering
brightness, aloft in the air, they seldom stopped to gaze, but ran and
hid themselves as speedily as they could. You will think, perhaps, that
they were afraid of being stung by the serpents that served the Gorgons
instead of hair,--or of having their heads bitten off by their ugly
tusks,--or of being torn all to pieces by their brazen claws. Well, to
be sure, these were some of the dangers, but by no means the greatest,
nor the most difficult to avoid. For the worst thing about these
abominable Gorgons was, that, if once a poor mortal fixed his eyes full
upon one of their faces, he was certain, that very instant, to be
changed from warm flesh and blood into cold and lifeless stone!

Thus, as you will easily perceive, it was a very dangerous adventure
that the wicked King Polydectes had contrived for this innocent young
man. Perseus himself, when he had thought over the matter, could not
help seeing that he had very little chance of coming safely through it,
and that he was far more likely to become a stone image than to bring
back the head of Medusa with the snaky locks. For, not to speak of other
difficulties, there was one which it would have puzzled an older man
than Perseus to get over. Not only must he fight with and slay this
golden-winged, iron-scaled, long-tusked, brazen-clawed, snaky-haired
monster, but he must do it with his eyes shut, or, at least, without so
much as a glance at the enemy with whom he was contending. Else, while
his arm was lifted to strike, he would stiffen into stone, and stand
with that uplifted arm for centuries, until time, and the wind and
weather, should crumble him quite away. This would be a very sad thing
to befall a young man who wanted to perform a great many brave deeds,
and to enjoy a great deal of happiness, in this bright and beautiful
world.

So disconsolate did these thoughts make him, that Perseus could not bear
to tell his mother what he had undertaken to do. He therefore took his
shield, girded on his sword, and crossed over from the island to the
mainland, where he sat down in a solitary place, and hardly refrained
from shedding tears.

But, while he was in this sorrowful mood, he heard a voice close beside
him.

"Perseus," said the voice, "why are you sad?"

He lifted his head from his hands, in which he had hidden it, and
behold! all alone as Perseus had supposed himself to be, there was a
stranger in the solitary place. It was a brisk, intelligent, and
remarkably shrewd-looking young man, with a cloak over his shoulders, an
odd sort of cap on his head, a strangely twisted staff in his hand, and
a short and very crooked sword hanging by his side. He was exceedingly
light and active in his figure, like a person much accustomed to
gymnastic exercises, and well able to leap or run. Above all, the
stranger had such a cheerful, knowing, and helpful aspect (though it was
certainly a little mischievous, into the bargain), that Perseus could
not help feeling his spirits grow livelier as he gazed at him. Besides,
being really a courageous youth, he felt greatly ashamed that anybody
should have found him with tears in his eyes, like a timid little
school-boy, when, after all, there might be no occasion for despair. So
Perseus wiped his eyes, and answered the stranger pretty briskly,
putting on as brave a look as he could.

"I am not so very sad," said he, "only thoughtful about an adventure
that I have undertaken."

"Oho!" answered the stranger. "Well, tell me all about it, and possibly
I may be of service to you. I have helped a good many young men through
adventures that looked difficult enough beforehand. Perhaps you may have
heard of me. I have more names than one; but the name of Quicksilver
suits me as well as any other. Tell me what the trouble is, and we will
talk the matter over, and see what can be done."

The stranger's words and manner put Perseus into quite a different mood
from his former one. He resolved to tell Quicksilver all his
difficulties, since he could not easily be worse off than he already
was, and, very possibly, his new friend might give him some advice that
would turn out well in the end. So he let the stranger know, in few
words, precisely what the case was,--how that King Polydectes wanted the
head of Medusa with the snaky locks as a bridal gift for the beautiful
Princess Hippodamia, and how that he had undertaken to get it for him,
but was afraid of being turned into stone.

"And that would be a great pity," said Quicksilver, with his mischievous
smile. "You would make a very handsome marble statue, it is true, and it
would be a considerable number of centuries before you crumbled away;
but, on the whole, one would rather be a young man for a few years, than
a stone image for a great many."

"Oh, far rather!" exclaimed Perseus, with the tears again standing in
his eyes. "And, besides, what would my dear mother do, if her beloved
son were turned into a stone?"

"Well, well, let us hope that the affair will not turn out so very
badly," replied Quicksilver, in an encouraging tone. "I am the very
person to help you, if anybody can. My sister and myself will do our
utmost to bring you safe through the adventure, ugly as it now looks."

"Your sister?" repeated Perseus.

"Yes, my sister," said the stranger. "She is very wise, I promise you;
and as for myself, I generally have all my wits about me, such as they
are. If you show yourself bold and cautious, and follow our advice, you
need not fear being a stone image yet awhile. But, first of all, you
must polish your shield, till you can see your face in it as distinctly
as in a mirror."

This seemed to Perseus rather an odd beginning of the adventure; for he
thought it of far more consequence that the shield should be strong
enough to defend him from the Gorgon's brazen claws, than that it should
be bright enough to show him the reflection of his face. However,
concluding that Quicksilver knew better than himself, he immediately set
to work, and scrubbed the shield with so much diligence and good-will,
that it very quickly shone like the moon at harvest-time. Quicksilver
looked at it with a smile, and nodded his approbation. Then, taking off
his own short and crooked sword, he girded it about Perseus, instead of
the one which he had before worn.

"No sword but mine will answer your purpose," observed he; "the blade
has a most excellent temper, and will cut through iron and brass as
easily as through the slenderest twig. And now we will set out. The next
thing is to find the Three Gray Women, who will tell us where to find
the Nymphs."

"The Three Gray Women!" cried Perseus, to whom this seemed only a new
difficulty in the path of his adventure; "pray who may the Three Gray
Women be? I never heard of them before."

"They are three very strange old ladies," said Quicksilver, laughing.
"They have but one eye among them, and only one tooth. Moreover, you
must find them out by starlight, or in the dusk of the evening; for they
never show themselves by the light either of the sun or moon."

"But," said Perseus, "why should I waste my time with these Three Gray
Women? Would it not be better to set out at once in search of the
terrible Gorgons?"

"No, no," answered his friend. "There are other things to be done,
before you can find your way to the Gorgons. There is nothing for it but
to hunt up these old ladies; and when we meet with them, you may be sure
that the Gorgons are not a great way off. Come, let us be stirring!"

Perseus, by this time, felt so much confidence in his companion's
sagacity, that he made no more objections, and professed himself ready
to begin the adventure immediately. They accordingly set out, and walked
at a pretty brisk pace; so brisk, indeed, that Perseus found it rather
difficult to keep up with his nimble friend Quicksilver. To say the
truth, he had a singular idea that Quicksilver was furnished with a pair
of winged shoes, which, of course, helped him along marvellously. And
then, too, when Perseus looked sideways at him, out of the corner of his
eye, he seemed to see wings on the side of his head; although, if he
turned a full gaze, there were no such things to be perceived, but only
an odd kind of cap. But, at all events, the twisted staff was evidently
a great convenience to Quicksilver, and enabled him to proceed so fast,
that Perseus, though a remarkably active young man, began to be out of
breath.

"Here!" cried Quicksilver, at last,--for he knew well enough, rogue that
he was, how hard Perseus found it to keep pace with him,--"take you the
staff, for you need it a great deal more than I. Are there no better
walkers than yourself in the island of Seriphus?"

"I could walk pretty well," said Perseus, glancing slyly at his
companion's feet, "if I had only a pair of winged shoes."

"We must see about getting you a pair," answered Quicksilver.

But the staff helped Perseus along so bravely, that he no longer felt
the slightest weariness. In fact, the stick seemed to be alive in his
hand, and to lend some of its life to Perseus. He and Quicksilver now
walked onward at their ease, talking very sociably together; and
Quicksilver told so many pleasant stories about his former adventures,
and how well his wits had served him on various occasions, that Perseus
began to think him a very wonderful person. He evidently knew the world;
and nobody is so charming to a young man as a friend who has that kind
of knowledge. Perseus listened the more eagerly, in the hope of
brightening his own wits by what he heard.

At last, he happened to recollect that Quicksilver had spoken of a
sister, who was to lend her assistance in the adventure which they were
now bound upon.

"Where is she?" he inquired. "Shall we not meet her soon?"

"All at the proper time," said his companion. "But this sister of mine,
you must understand, is quite a different sort of character from myself.
She is very grave and prudent, seldom smiles, never laughs, and makes it
a rule not to utter a word unless she has something particularly
profound to say. Neither will she listen to any but the wisest
conversation."

"Dear me!" ejaculated Perseus; "I shall be afraid to say a syllable."

"She is a very accomplished person, I assure you," continued
Quicksilver, "and has all the arts and sciences at her fingers' ends. In
short, she is so immoderately wise, that many people call her wisdom
personified. But, to tell you the truth, she has hardly vivacity enough
for my taste; and I think you would scarcely find her so pleasant a
travelling companion as myself. She has her good points, nevertheless;
and you will find the benefit of them, in your encounter with the
Gorgons."

By this time it had grown quite dusk. They were now come to a very wild
and desert place, overgrown with shaggy bushes, and so silent and
solitary that nobody seemed ever to have dwelt or journeyed there. All
was waste and desolate, in the gray twilight, which grew every moment
more obscure. Perseus looked about him, rather disconsolately, and
asked Quicksilver whether they had a great deal farther to go.

"Hist! hist!" whispered his companion. "Make no noise! This is just the
time and place to meet the Three Gray Women. Be careful that they do not
see you before you see them; for, though they have but a single eye
among the three, it is as sharp-sighted as half a dozen common eyes."

"But what must I do," asked Perseus, "when we meet them?"

Quicksilver explained to Perseus how the Three Gray Women managed with
their one eye. They were in the habit, it seems, of changing it from one
to another, as if it had been a pair of spectacles, or--which would have
suited them better--a quizzing-glass. When one of the three had kept the
eye a certain time, she took it out of the socket and passed it to one
of her sisters, whose turn it might happen to be, and who immediately
clapped it into her own head, and enjoyed a peep at the visible world.
Thus it will easily be understood that only one of the Three Gray Women
could see, while the other two were in utter darkness; and, moreover, at
the instant when the eye was passing from hand to hand, neither of the
poor old ladies was able to see a wink. I have heard of a great many
strange things, in my day, and have witnessed not a few; but none, it
seems to me, that can compare with the oddity of these Three Gray Women,
all peeping through a single eye.

So thought Perseus, likewise, and was so astonished that he almost
fancied his companion was joking with him, and that there were no such
old women in the world.

"You will soon find whether I tell the truth or no," observed
Quicksilver. "Hark! hush! hist! hist! There they come, now!"

Perseus looked earnestly through the dusk of the evening, and there,
sure enough, at no great distance off, he descried the Three Gray Women.
The light being so faint, he could not well make out what sort of
figures they were; only he discovered that they had long gray hair; and,
as they came nearer, he saw that two of them had but the empty socket of
an eye, in the middle of their foreheads. But, in the middle of the
third sister's forehead, there was a very large, bright, and piercing
eye, which sparkled like a great diamond in a ring; and so penetrating
did it seem to be, that Perseus could not help thinking it must possess
the gift of seeing in the darkest midnight just as perfectly as at
noonday. The sight of three persons' eyes was melted and collected into
that single one.

Thus the three old dames got along about as comfortably, upon the whole,
as if they could all see at once. She who chanced to have the eye in her
forehead led the other two by the hands, peeping sharply about her, all
the while; insomuch that Perseus dreaded lest she should see right
through the thick clump of bushes behind which he and Quicksilver had
hidden themselves. My stars! it was positively terrible to be within
reach of so very sharp an eye!

But, before they reached the clump of bushes, one of the Three Gray
Women spoke.

"Sister! Sister Scarecrow!" cried she, "you have had the eye long
enough. It is my turn now!"

"Let me keep it a moment longer, Sister Nightmare," answered Scarecrow.
"I thought I had a glimpse of something behind that thick bush."

"Well, and what of that?" retorted Nightmare, peevishly. "Can't I see
into a thick bush as easily as yourself? The eye is mine as well as
yours; and I know the use of it as well as you, or may be a little
better. I insist upon taking a peep immediately!"

But here the third sister, whose name was Shakejoint, began to complain,
and said that it was her turn to have the eye, and that Scarecrow and
Nightmare wanted to keep it all to themselves. To end the dispute, old
Dame Scarecrow took the eye out of her forehead, and held it forth in
her hand.

"Take it, one of you," cried she, "and quit this foolish quarrelling.
For my part, I shall be glad of a little thick darkness. Take it
quickly, however, or I must clap it into my own head again!"

Accordingly, both Nightmare and Shakejoint put out their hands, groping
eagerly to snatch the eye out of the hand of Scarecrow. But, being both
alike blind, they could not easily find where Scarecrow's hand was; and
Scarecrow, being now just as much in the dark as Shakejoint and
Nightmare, could not at once meet either of their hands, in order to put
the eye into it. Thus (as you will see, with half an eye, my wise little
auditors), these good old dames had fallen into a strange perplexity.
For, though the eye shone and glistened like a star, as Scarecrow held
it out, yet the Gray Women caught not the least glimpse of its light,
and were all three in utter darkness, from too impatient a desire to
see.

Quicksilver was so much tickled at beholding Shakejoint and Nightmare
both groping for the eye, and each finding fault with Scarecrow and one
another, that he could scarcely help laughing aloud.

"Now is your time!" he whispered to Perseus. "Quick, quick! before they
can clap the eye into either of their heads. Rush out upon the old
ladies, and snatch it from Scarecrow's hand!"

In an instant, while the Three Gray Women were still scolding each
other, Perseus leaped from behind the clump of bushes, and made himself
master of the prize. The marvellous eye, as he held it in his hand,
shone very brightly, and seemed to look up into his face with a knowing
air, and an expression as if it would have winked, had it been provided
with a pair of eyelids for that purpose. But the Gray Women knew nothing
of what had happened; and, each supposing that one of her sisters was
in possession of the eye, they began their quarrel anew. At last, as
Perseus did not wish to put these respectable dames to greater
inconvenience than was really necessary, he thought it right to explain
the matter.

"My good ladies," said he, "pray do not be angry with one another. If
anybody is in fault, it is myself; for I have the honor to hold your
very brilliant and excellent eye in my own hand!"

"You! you have our eye! And who are you?" screamed the Three Gray Women,
all in a breath; for they were terribly frightened, of course, at
hearing a strange voice, and discovering that their eyesight had got
into the hands of they could not guess whom. "Oh, what shall we do,
sisters? what shall we do? We are all in the dark! Give us our eye! Give
us our one, precious, solitary eye! You have two of your own! Give us
our eye!"

"Tell them," whispered Quicksilver to Perseus, "that they shall have
back the eye as soon as they direct you where to find the Nymphs who
have the flying slippers, the magic wallet, and the helmet of darkness."

"My dear, good, admirable old ladies," said Perseus, addressing the Gray
Women, "there is no occasion for putting yourselves into such a fright.
I am by no means a bad young man. You shall have back your eye, safe and
sound, and as bright as ever, the moment you tell me where to find the
Nymphs."

"The Nymphs! Goodness me! sisters, what Nymphs does he mean?" screamed
Scarecrow. "There are a great many Nymphs, people say; some that go a
hunting in the woods, and some that live inside of trees, and some that
have a comfortable home in fountains of water. We know nothing at all
about them. We are three unfortunate old souls, that go wandering about
in the dusk, and never had but one eye amongst us, and that one you
have stolen away. Oh, give it back, good stranger!--whoever you are,
give it back!"

All this while the Three Gray Women were groping with their outstretched
hands, and trying their utmost to get hold of Perseus. But he took good
care to keep out of their reach.

"My respectable dames," said he,--for his mother had taught him always
to use the greatest civility,--"I hold your eye fast in my hand, and
shall keep it safely for you, until you please to tell me where to find
these Nymphs. The Nymphs, I mean, who keep the enchanted wallet, the
flying slippers, and the what is it?--the helmet of invisibility."

"Mercy on us, sisters! what is the young man talking about?" exclaimed
Scarecrow, Nightmare, and Shakejoint, one to another, with great
appearance of astonishment. "A pair of flying slippers, quoth he! His
heels would quickly fly higher than his head, if he were silly enough to
put them on. And a helmet of invisibility! How could a helmet make him
invisible, unless it were big enough for him to hide under it? And an
enchanted wallet! What sort of a contrivance may that be, I wonder? No,
no, good stranger! we can tell you nothing of these marvellous things.
You have two eyes of your own, and we have but a single one amongst us
three. You can find out such wonders better than three blind old
creatures, like us."

Perseus, hearing them talk in this way, began really to think that the
Gray Women knew nothing of the matter; and, as it grieved him to have
put them to so much trouble, he was just on the point of restoring their
eye and asking pardon for his rudeness in snatching it away. But
Quicksilver caught his hand.

"Don't let them make a fool of you!" said he. "These Three Gray Women
are the only persons in the world that can tell you where to find the
Nymphs; and, unless you get that information, you will never succeed in
cutting off the head of Medusa with the snaky locks. Keep fast hold of
the eye, and all will go well."

As it turned out, Quicksilver was in the right. There are but few things
that people prize so much as they do their eyesight; and the Gray Women
valued their single eye as highly as if it had been half a dozen, which
was the number they ought to have had. Finding that there was no other
way of recovering it, they at last told Perseus what he wanted to know.
No sooner had they done so, than he immediately, and with the utmost
respect, clapped the eye into the vacant socket in one of their
foreheads, thanked them for their kindness, and bade them farewell.
Before the young man was out of hearing, however, they had got into a
new dispute, because he happened to have given the eye to Scarecrow, who
had already taken her turn of it when their trouble with Perseus
commenced.

It is greatly to be feared that the Three Gray Women were very much in
the habit of disturbing their mutual harmony by bickerings of this sort;
which was the more pity, as they could not conveniently do without one
another, and were evidently intended to be inseparable companions. As a
general rule, I would advise all people, whether sisters or brothers,
old or young, who chance to have but one eye amongst them, to cultivate
forbearance, and not all insist upon peeping through it at once.

Quicksilver and Perseus, in the mean time, were making the best of their
way in quest of the Nymphs. The old dames had given them such particular
directions, that they were not long in finding them out. They proved to
be very different persons from Nightmare, Shakejoint, and Scarecrow;
for, instead of being old, they were young and beautiful; and instead of
one eye amongst the sisterhood, each Nymph had two exceedingly bright
eyes of her own, with which she looked very kindly at Perseus. They
seemed to be acquainted with Quicksilver; and, when he told them the
adventure which Perseus had undertaken, they made no difficulty about
giving him the valuable articles that were in their custody. In the
first place, they brought out what appeared to be a small purse, made of
deer skin, and curiously embroidered, and bade him be sure and keep it
safe. This was the magic wallet. The Nymphs next produced a pair of
shoes, or slippers, or sandals, with a nice little pair of wings at the
heel of each.

"Put them on, Perseus," said Quicksilver. "You will find yourself as
light-heeled as you can desire for the remainder of our journey."

So Perseus proceeded to put one of the slippers on, while he laid the
other on the ground by his side. Unexpectedly, however, this other
slipper spread its wings, fluttered up off the ground, and would
probably have flown away, if Quicksilver had not made a leap, and
luckily caught it in the air.

"Be more careful," said he, as he gave it back to Perseus. "It would
frighten the birds, up aloft, if they should see a flying slipper
amongst them."

When Perseus had got on both of these wonderful slippers, he was
altogether too buoyant to tread on earth. Making a step or two, lo and
behold! upward he popped into the air, high above the heads of
Quicksilver and the Nymphs, and found it very difficult to clamber down
again. Winged slippers, and all such high-flying contrivances, are
seldom quite easy to manage until one grows a little accustomed to them.
Quicksilver laughed at his companion's involuntary activity, and told
him that he must not be in so desperate a hurry, but must wait for the
invisible helmet.

The good-natured Nymphs had the helmet, with its dark tuft of waving
plumes, all in readiness to put upon his head. And now there happened
about as wonderful an incident as anything that I have yet told you. The
instant before the helmet was put on, there stood Perseus, a beautiful
young man, with golden ringlets and rosy cheeks, the crooked sword by
his side, and the brightly polished shield upon his arm,--a figure that
seemed all made up of courage, sprightliness, and glorious light. But
when the helmet had descended over his white brow, there was no longer
any Perseus to be seen! Nothing but empty air! Even the helmet, that
covered him with its invisibility, had vanished!

"Where are you, Perseus?" asked Quicksilver.

"Why, here, to be sure!" answered Perseus, very quietly, although his
voice seemed to come out of the transparent atmosphere. "Just where I
was a moment ago. Don't you see me?"

"No, indeed!" answered his friend. "You are hidden under the helmet.
But, if I cannot see you, neither can the Gorgons. Follow me, therefore,
and we will try your dexterity in using the winged slippers."

With these words, Quicksilver's cap spread its wings, as if his head
were about to fly away from his shoulders; but his whole figure rose
lightly into the air, and Perseus followed. By the time they had
ascended a few hundred feet, the young man began to feel what a
delightful thing it was to leave the dull earth so far beneath him, and
to be able to flit about like a bird.

It was now deep night. Perseus looked upward, and saw the round, bright,
silvery moon, and thought that he should desire nothing better than to
soar up thither, and spend his life there. Then he looked downward
again, and saw the earth, with its seas and lakes, and the silver
courses of its rivers, and its snowy mountain-peaks, and the breadth of
its fields, and the dark cluster of its woods, and its cities of white
marble; and, with the moonshine sleeping over the whole scene, it was as
beautiful as the moon or any star could be. And, among other objects, he
saw the island of Seriphus, where his dear mother was. Sometimes he and
Quicksilver approached a cloud, that, at a distance, looked as if it
were made of fleecy silver; although, when they plunged into it, they
found themselves chilled and moistened with gray mist. So swift was
their flight, however, that, in an instant, they emerged from the cloud
into the moonlight again. Once, a high-soaring eagle flew right against
the invisible Perseus. The bravest sights were the meteors, that gleamed
suddenly out, as if a bonfire had been kindled in the sky, and made the
moonshine pale for as much as a hundred miles around them.

As the two companions flew onward, Perseus fancied that he could hear
the rustle of a garment close by his side; and it was on the side
opposite to the one where he beheld Quicksilver, yet only Quicksilver
was visible.

"Whose garment is this," inquired Perseus, "that keeps rustling close
beside me in the breeze?"

"Oh, it is my sister's!" answered Quicksilver. "She is coming along with
us, as I told you she would. We could do nothing without the help of my
sister. You have no idea how wise she is. She has such eyes, too! Why,
she can see you, at this moment, just as distinctly as if you were not
invisible; and I'll venture to say, she will be the first to discover
the Gorgons."

By this time, in their swift voyage through the air, they had come
within sight of the great ocean, and were soon flying over it. Far
beneath them, the waves tossed themselves tumultuously in mid-sea, or
rolled a white surf-line upon the long beaches, or foamed against the
rocky cliffs, with a roar that was thunderous, in the lower world;
although it became a gentle murmur, like the voice of a baby half
asleep, before it reached the ears of Perseus. Just then a voice spoke
in the air close by him. It seemed to be a woman's voice, and was
melodious, though not exactly what might be called sweet, but grave and
mild.

"Perseus," said the voice, "there are the Gorgons."

"Where?" exclaimed Perseus. "I cannot see them."

"On the shore of that island beneath you," replied the voice. "A
pebble, dropped from your hand, would strike in the midst of them."

"I told you she would be the first to discover them," said Quicksilver
to Perseus. "And there they are!"

Straight downward, two or three thousand feet below him, Perseus
perceived a small island, with the sea breaking into white foam all
around its rocky shore, except on one side, where there was a beach of
snowy sand. He descended towards it, and, looking earnestly at a cluster
or heap of brightness, at the foot of a precipice of black rocks,
behold, there were the terrible Gorgons! They lay fast asleep, soothed
by the thunder of the sea; for it required a tumult that would have
deafened everybody else to lull such fierce creatures into slumber. The
moonlight glistened on their steely scales, and on their golden wings,
which drooped idly over the sand. Their brazen claws, horrible to look
at, were thrust out, and clutched the wave-beaten fragments of rock,
while the sleeping Gorgons dreamed of tearing some poor mortal all to
pieces. The snakes that served them instead of hair seemed likewise to
be asleep; although, now and then, one would writhe, and lift its head,
and thrust out its forked tongue, emitting a drowsy hiss, and then let
itself subside among its sister snakes.

The Gorgons were more like an awful, gigantic kind of insect,--immense,
golden-winged beetles, or dragon-flies, or things of that sort,--at once
ugly and beautiful,--than like anything else; only that they were a
thousand and a million times as big. And, with all this, there was
something partly human about them, too. Luckily for Perseus, their faces
were completely hidden from him by the posture in which they lay; for,
had he but looked one instant at them, he would have fallen heavily out
of the air, an image of senseless stone.

"Now," whispered Quicksilver, as he hovered by the side of
Perseus,--"now is your time to do the deed! Be quick; or, if one of the
Gorgons should awake, you are too late!"

"Which shall I strike at?" asked Perseus, drawing his sword and
descending a little lower. "They all three look alike. All three have
snaky locks. Which of the three is Medusa?"

It must be understood that Medusa was the only one of these
dragon-monsters whose head Perseus could possibly cut off. As for the
other two, let him have the sharpest sword that ever was forged, and he
might have hacked away by the hour together, without doing them the
least harm.

"Be cautious," said the calm voice which had before spoken to him. "One
of the Gorgons is stirring in her sleep, and is just about to turn over.
That is Medusa. Do not look at her! The sight would turn you to stone!
Look at the reflection of her face and figure in the bright mirror of
your shield."

Perseus now understood Quicksilver's motive for so earnestly exhorting
him to polish his shield. In its surface he could safely look at the
reflection of the Gorgon's face. And there it was,--that terrible
countenance,--mirrored in the brightness of the shield, with the
moonlight falling over it, and displaying all its horror. The snakes,
whose venomous natures could not altogether sleep, kept twisting
themselves over the forehead. It was the fiercest and most horrible face
that ever was seen or imagined, and yet with a strange, fearful, and
savage kind of beauty in it. The eyes were closed, and the Gorgon was
still in a deep slumber; but there was an unquiet expression disturbing
her features, as if the monster was troubled with an ugly dream. She
gnashed her white tusks, and dug into the sand with her brazen claws.

The snakes, too, seemed to feel Medusa's dream, and to be made more
restless by it. They twined themselves into tumultuous knots, writhed
fiercely, and uplifted a hundred hissing heads, without opening their
eyes.

"Now, now!" whispered Quicksilver, who was growing impatient. "Make a
dash at the monster!"

"But be calm," said the grave, melodious voice, at the young man's side.
"Look in your shield, as you fly downward, and take care that you do not
miss your first stroke."

Perseus flew cautiously downward, still keeping his eyes on Medusa's
face, as reflected in his shield. The nearer he came, the more terrible
did the snaky visage and metallic body of the monster grow. At last,
when he found himself hovering over her within arm's length, Perseus
uplifted his sword, while, at the same instant, each separate snake upon
the Gorgon's head stretched threateningly upward, and Medusa unclosed
her eyes. But she awoke too late. The sword was sharp; the stroke fell
like a lightning-flash; and the head of the wicked Medusa tumbled from
her body!

"Admirably done!" cried Quicksilver. "Make haste, and clap the head into
your magic wallet."

To the astonishment of Perseus, the small, embroidered wallet, which he
had hung about his neck, and which had hitherto been no bigger than a
purse, grew all at once large enough to contain Medusa's head. As quick
as thought, he snatched it up, with the snakes still writhing upon it,
and thrust it in.

"Your task is done," said the calm voice. "Now fly; for the other
Gorgons will do their utmost to take vengeance for Medusa's death."

It was, indeed, necessary to take flight; for Perseus had not done the
deed so quietly but that the clash of his sword, and the hissing of the
snakes, and the thump of Medusa's head as it tumbled upon the sea-beaten
sand, awoke the other two monsters. There they sat, for an instant,
sleepily rubbing their eyes with their brazen fingers, while all the
snakes on their heads reared themselves on end with surprise, and with
venomous malice against they knew not what. But when the Gorgons saw
the scaly carcass of Medusa, headless, and her golden wings all
ruffled, and half spread out on the sand, it was really awful to hear
what yells and screeches they set up. And then the snakes! They sent
forth a hundred-fold hiss, with one consent, and Medusa's snakes
answered them out of the magic wallet.

No sooner were the Gorgons broad awake than they hurtled upward into the
air, brandishing their brass talons, gnashing their horrible tusks, and
flapping their huge wings so wildly, that some of the golden feathers
were shaken out, and floated down upon the shore. And there, perhaps,
those very feathers lie scattered, till this day. Up rose the Gorgons,
as I tell you, staring horribly about, in hopes of turning somebody to
stone. Had Perseus looked them in the face, or had he fallen into their
clutches, his poor mother would never have kissed her boy again! But he
took good care to turn his eyes another way; and, as he wore the helmet
of invisibility, the Gorgons knew not in what direction to follow him;
nor did he fail to make the best use of the winged slippers, by soaring
upward a perpendicular mile or so. At that height, when the screams of
those abominable creatures sounded faintly beneath him, he made a
straight course for the island of Seriphus, in order to carry Medusa's
head to King Polydectes.

I have no time to tell you of several marvellous things that befell
Perseus, on his way homeward; such as his killing a hideous sea-monster,
just as it was on the point of devouring a beautiful maiden; nor how he
changed an enormous giant into a mountain of stone, merely by showing
him the head of the Gorgon. If you doubt this latter story, you may make
a voyage to Africa, some day or other, and see the very mountain, which
is still known by the ancient giant's name.

Finally, our brave Perseus arrived at the island, where he expected to
see his dear mother. But, during his absence, the wicked king had
treated Danae so very ill that she was compelled to make her escape,
and had taken refuge in a temple, where some good old priests were
extremely kind to her. These praise-worthy priests, and the kind-hearted
fisherman, who had first shown hospitality to Danae and little Perseus
when he found them afloat in the chest, seem to have been the only
persons on the island who cared about doing right. All the rest of the
people, as well as King Polydectes himself, were remarkably ill-behaved,
and deserved no better destiny than that which was now to happen.

Not finding his mother at home, Perseus went straight to the palace, and
was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. Polydectes was by
no means rejoiced to see him; for he had felt almost certain, in his own
evil mind, that the Gorgons would have torn the poor young man to
pieces, and have eaten him up, out of the way. However, seeing him
safely returned, he put the best face he could upon the matter and asked
Perseus how he had succeeded.

"Have you performed your promise?" inquired he. "Have you brought me the
head of Medusa with the snaky locks? If not, young man, it will cost you
dear; for I must have a bridal present for the beautiful Princess
Hippodamia, and there is nothing else that she would admire so much."

"Yes, please your Majesty," answered Perseus, in a quiet way, as if it
were no very wonderful deed for such a young man as he to perform. "I
have brought you the Gorgon's head, snaky locks and all!"

"Indeed! Pray let me see it," quoth King Polydectes. "It must be a very
curious spectacle, if all that travellers tell about it be true!"

"Your Majesty is in the right," replied Perseus. "It is really an object
that will be pretty certain to fix the regards of all who look at it.
And, if your Majesty think fit, I would suggest that a holiday be
proclaimed, and that all your Majesty's subjects be summoned to behold
this wonderful curiosity. Few of them, I imagine, have seen a Gorgon's
head before, and perhaps never may again!"

The king well knew that his subjects were an idle set of reprobates, and
very fond of sight-seeing, as idle persons usually are. So he took the
young man's advice, and sent out heralds and messengers, in all
directions, to blow the trumpet at the street-corners, and in the
market-places, and wherever two roads met, and summon everybody to
court. Thither, accordingly, came a great multitude of good-for-nothing
vagabonds, all of whom, out of pure love of mischief, would have been
glad if Perseus had met with some ill-hap in his encounter with the
Gorgons. If there were any better people in the island (as I really hope
there may have been, although the story tells nothing about any such),
they stayed quietly at home, minding their business, and taking care of
their little children. Most of the inhabitants, at all events, ran as
fast as they could to the palace, and shoved, and pushed, and elbowed
one another, in their eagerness to get near a balcony, on which Perseus
showed himself, holding the embroidered wallet in his hand.

On a platform, within full view of the balcony, sat the mighty King
Polydectes, amid his evil counsellors, and with his flattering courtiers
in a semicircle round about him. Monarch, counsellors, courtiers, and
subjects, all gazed eagerly towards Perseus.

"Show us the head! Show us the head!" shouted the people; and there was
a fierceness in their cry as if they would tear Perseus to pieces,
unless he should satisfy them with what he had to show. "Show us the
head of Medusa with the snaky locks!"

A feeling of sorrow and pity came over the youthful Perseus.

"O King Polydectes," cried he, "and ye many people, I am very loath to
show you the Gorgon's head!"

"Ah, the villain and coward!" yelled the people, more fiercely than
before. "He is making game of us! He has no Gorgon's head! Show us the
head, if you have it, or we will take your own head for a football!"

The evil counsellors whispered bad advice in the king's ear; the
courtiers murmured, with one consent, that Perseus had shown disrespect
to their royal lord and master; and the great King Polydectes himself
waved his hand, and ordered him, with the stern, deep voice of
authority, on his peril, to produce the head.

"Show me the Gorgon's head, or I will cut off your own!"

And Perseus sighed.

"This instant," repeated Polydectes, "or you die!"

"Behold it, then!" cried Perseus, in a voice like the blast of a
trumpet.

And, suddenly holding up the head, not an eyelid had time to wink before
the wicked King Polydectes, his evil counsellors, and all his fierce
subjects were no longer anything but the mere images of a monarch and
his people. They were all fixed, forever, in the look and attitude of
that moment! At the first glimpse of the terrible head of Medusa, they
whitened into marble! And Perseus thrust the head back into his wallet,
and went to tell his dear mother that she need no longer be afraid of
the wicked King Polydectes.


Tanglewood Porch

_After the Story_

"Was not that a very fine story?" asked Eustace.

"Oh yes, yes!" cried Cowslip, clapping her hands.

"And those funny old women, with only one eye amongst them! I never
heard of anything so strange."

"As to their one tooth, which they shifted about," observed Primrose,
"there was nothing so very wonderful in that. I suppose it was a false
tooth. But think of your turning Mercury into Quicksilver, and talking
about his sister! You are too ridiculous!"

"And was she not his sister?" asked Eustace Bright. "If I had thought of
it sooner, I would have described her as a maiden lady, who kept a pet
owl!"

"Well, at any rate," said Primrose, "your story seems to have driven
away the mist."

And, indeed, while the tale was going forward, the vapors had been quite
exhaled from the landscape. A scene was now disclosed which the
spectators might almost fancy as having been created since they had last
looked in the direction where it lay. About half a mile distant, in the
lap of the valley, now appeared a beautiful lake, which reflected a
perfect image of its own wooded banks, and of the summits of the more
distant hills. It gleamed in glassy tranquillity, without the trace of a
winged breeze on any part of its bosom. Beyond its farther shore was
Monument Mountain, in a recumbent position, stretching almost across the
valley. Eustace Bright compared it to a huge, headless sphinx, wrapped
in a Persian shawl; and, indeed, so rich and diversified was the
autumnal foliage of its woods, that the simile of the shawl was by no
means too high-colored for the reality. In the lower ground, between
Tanglewood and the lake, the clumps of trees and borders of woodland
were chiefly golden-leaved or dusky brown, as having suffered more from
frost than the foliage on the hill-sides.

Over all this scene there was a genial sunshine, intermingled with a
slight haze, which made it unspeakably soft and tender. Oh, what a day
of Indian summer was it going to be! The children snatched their
baskets, and set forth, with hop, skip, and jump, and all sorts of
frisks and gambols; while Cousin Eustace proved his fitness to preside
over the party, by outdoing all their antics, and performing several new
capers, which none of them could ever hope to imitate. Behind went a
good old dog, whose name was Ben. He was one of the most respectable and
kind-hearted of quadrupeds, and probably felt it to be his duty not to
trust the children away from their parents without some better guardian
than this feather-brained Eustace Bright.




THE GOLDEN TOUCH


Shadow Brook

_Introductory to "The Golden Touch"_

At noon, our juvenile party assembled in a dell, through the depths of
which ran a little brook. The dell was narrow, and its steep sides, from
the margin of the stream upward, were thickly set with trees, chiefly
walnuts and chestnuts, among which grew a few oaks and maples. In the
summer time, the shade of so many clustering branches, meeting and
intermingling across the rivulet, was deep enough to produce a noontide
twilight. Hence came the name of Shadow Brook. But now, ever since
autumn had crept into this secluded place, all the dark verdure was
changed to gold, so that it really kindled up the dell, instead of
shading it. The bright yellow leaves, even had it been a cloudy day,
would have seemed to keep the sunlight among them; and enough of them
had fallen to strew all the bed and margin of the brook with sunlight,
too. Thus the shady nook, where summer had cooled herself, was now the
sunniest spot anywhere to be found.

The little brook ran along over its pathway of gold, here pausing to
form a pool, in which minnows were darting to and fro; and then it
hurried onward at a swifter pace, as if in haste to reach the lake; and,
forgetting to look whither it went, it tumbled over the root of a tree,
which stretched quite across its current. You would have laughed to hear
how noisily it babbled about this accident. And even after it had run
onward, the brook still kept talking to itself, as if it were in a
maze. It was wonder-smitten, I suppose, at finding its dark dell so
illuminated, and at hearing the prattle and merriment of so many
children. So it stole away as quickly as it could, and hid itself in the
lake.

In the dell of Shadow Brook, Eustace Bright and his little friends had
eaten their dinner. They had brought plenty of good things from
Tanglewood, in their baskets, and had spread them out on the stumps of
trees, and on mossy trunks, and had feasted merrily, and made a very
nice dinner indeed. After it was over, nobody felt like stirring.

"We will rest ourselves here," said several of the children, "while
Cousin Eustace tells us another of his pretty stories."

Cousin Eustace had a good right to be tired, as well as the children,
for he had performed great feats on that memorable forenoon. Dandelion,
Clover, Cowslip, and Buttercup were almost most persuaded that he had
winged slippers, like those which the Nymphs gave Perseus; so often had
the student shown himself at the tip-top of a nut-tree, when only a
moment before he had been standing on the ground. And then, what showers
of walnuts had he sent rattling down upon their heads, for their busy
little hands to gather into the baskets! In short, he had been as active
as a squirrel or a monkey, and now, flinging himself down on the yellow
leaves, seemed inclined to take a little rest.

But children have no mercy nor consideration for anybody's weariness;
and if you had but a single breath left, they would ask you to spend it
in telling them a story.

"Cousin Eustace," said Cowslip, "that was a very nice story of the
Gorgon's Head. Do you think you could tell us another as good?"

"Yes, child," said Eustace, pulling the brim of his cap over his eyes,
as if preparing for a nap. "I can tell you a dozen, as good or better,
if I choose."

"O Primrose and Periwinkle, do you hear what he says?" cried Cowslip,
dancing with delight. "Cousin Eustace is going to tell us a dozen better
stories than that about the Gorgon's Head!"

"I did not promise you even one, you foolish little Cowslip!" said
Eustace, half pettishly. "However, I suppose you must have it. This is
the consequence of having earned a reputation! I wish I were a great
deal duller than I am, or that I had never shown half the bright
qualities with which nature has endowed me; and then I might have my nap
out, in peace and comfort!"

But Cousin Eustace, as I think I have hinted before, was as fond of
telling his stories as the children of hearing them. His mind was in a
free and happy state, and took delight in its own activity, and scarcely
required any external impulse to set it at work.

How different is this spontaneous play of the intellect from the trained
diligence of maturer years, when toil has perhaps grown easy by long
habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the day's
comfort, although the rest of the matter has bubbled away! This remark,
however, is not meant for the children to hear.

Without further solicitation, Eustace Bright proceeded to tell the
following really splendid story. It had come into his mind as he lay
looking upward into the depths of a tree, and observing how the touch of
Autumn had transmuted every one of its green leaves into what resembled
the purest gold. And this change, which we have all of us witnessed, is
as wonderful as anything that Eustace told about in the story of Midas.


The Golden Touch

Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose
name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself
ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely
forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to
call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world.
He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that
precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the
one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool.
But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek
for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could
possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest
pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together
since the world was made. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his
time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at
the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold,
and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When little
Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he
used to say, "Poh, poh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they
look, they would be worth the plucking!"

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of
this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for
flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and
beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt.
These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and
as fragrant, as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them,
and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was
only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the
innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he once
was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were
said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas, now,
was the chink of one coin against another.

At length, as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take
care to grow wiser and wiser, Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object
that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large
portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at
the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this
dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook
himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after
carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold
cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of
gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the
one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. He
valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not
shine without its help. And then would he reckon over the coins in the
bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust
through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as
reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to
himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!" But it
was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out
of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his
foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so
happy as he might be. The very tip-top of enjoyment would never be
reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be
filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in
the old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came
to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in
our own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things
take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which
the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole,
I regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that
may be, I must go on with my story.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when
he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly
up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the
bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy
face. Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow
tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind
of golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures
than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were
lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles
of fire.

As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that
no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of
course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal.
It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the
earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the
resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to
interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children,
half playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now,
and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect,
indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would
have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was
far more probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that
favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?

The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again
to Midas.

"You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!" he observed. "I doubt whether any
other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived
to pile up in this room."

"I have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered Midas, in a
discontented tone. "But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you
consider that it has taken me my whole life to get it together. If one
could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!"

"What!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then you are not satisfied?"

Midas shook his head.

"And pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know."

Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger,
with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither
with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes.
Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and
obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible, thing it might come
into his head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and
heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without
being able to imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred
to King Midas. It seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which
he loved so much.

Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.

"Well, Midas," observed his visitor, "I see that you have at length hit
upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish."

"It is only this," replied Midas. "I am weary of collecting my treasures
with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have
done my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!"

The stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room
like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the
yellow autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of
gold--lie strewn in the glow of light.

"The Golden Touch!" exclaimed he. "You certainly deserve credit, friend
Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite
sure that this will satisfy you?"

"How could it fail?" said Midas.

"And will you never regret the possession of it?"

"What could induce me?" asked Midas. "I ask nothing else, to render me
perfectly happy."

"Be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in
token of farewell. "To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted
with the Golden Touch."

The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas
involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one
yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the
precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep
or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to
whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any
rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills, when King Midas was broad
awake, and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects
that were within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch
had really come, according to the stranger's promise. So he laid his
finger on a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was
grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the
same substance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had
only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had
been making game of him. And what a miserable affair would it be, if,
after all his hopes, Midas must content himself with what little gold he
could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a
touch!

All this while, it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak
of brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it.
He lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his
hopes, and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam
shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. It
seemed to Midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather
a singular way on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely,
what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen
fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest
and brightest gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first
sunbeam!

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room,
grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of
the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He
pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of
the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his
hand,--a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first
touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and
gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his
fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden
plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible. He
hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a
magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and
softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out
his handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him. That was
likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and pretty stitches running
all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King
Midas. He would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have
remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his
hand.

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas now took
his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that
he might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days,
spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already
worn by kings; else, how could Midas have had any? To his great
perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that
he could not possibly see through them. But this was the most natural
thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystals
turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless
as spectacles, though valuable as gold. It struck Midas as rather
inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich
enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.

"It is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very
philosophically. "We cannot expect any great good, without its being
accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the
sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very
eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little
Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me."

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace
seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went down
stairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase
became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his
descent. He lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but
golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here,
as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full
bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very
delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate
blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest,
and so full of sweet tranquillity, did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his
way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains
in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most
indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms
at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this
good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast; and as
the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back
to the palace.

What was usually a king's breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do
not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the best of my belief,
however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot
cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled
eggs, and coffee, for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk
for his daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set
before a king; and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have
had a better.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her
to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming,
in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really
loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on
account of the good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great
while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly.
This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the
cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and
hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her
sobs, he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits, by an
agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his
daughter's bowl (which was a China one, with pretty figures all around
it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and
showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart
would break.

"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "Pray what is the matter with
you, this bright morning?"

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in
which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this
magnificent golden rose to make you cry?"

"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let
her; "it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As
soon as I was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for
you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when
gathered by your little daughter. But, oh dear, dear me! What do you
think has happened? Such a misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that
smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and
spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no
longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?"

"Poh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said Midas, who
was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so
greatly afflicted her. "Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will
find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last
hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day."

"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it
contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my
nose!"

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for
the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful
transmutation of her China bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for
Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer
figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the
circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in
the yellow hue of the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of
course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it
up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it was
rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits,
to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the
difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen
would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as
golden bowls and coffee-pots.

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and,
sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips
touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment,
hardened into a lump!

"Ha!" exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

"What is the matter, father?" asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with
the tears still standing in her eyes.

"Nothing, child, nothing!" said Midas. "Eat your milk, before it gets
quite cold."

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of
experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was
immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook-trout into a
gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep
in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. No; but it was really a
metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the
nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires;
its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of
the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely
fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty piece of work, as
you may suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment, would much rather
have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable
imitation of one.

"I don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how I am to get any
breakfast!"

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when,
to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the
whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To say the
truth, if it had really been a hot Indian cake, Midas would have prized
it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased
weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in
despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent
a change similar to those of the trout and the cake. The egg, indeed,
might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in
the story-book, was in the habit of laying; but King Midas was the only
goose that had had anything to do with the matter.

"Well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair, and
looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread
and milk with great satisfaction. "Such a costly breakfast before me,
and nothing that can be eaten!"

Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt
to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot
potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a
hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth
full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue
that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and
stamp about the room, both with pain and affright.

"Father, dear father!" cried little Marygold, who was a very
affectionate child, "pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your
mouth?"

"Ah, dear child," groaned Midas, dolefully, "I don't know what is to
become of your poor father!"

And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable
case in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that
could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely
good for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of
bread and cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose
delicate food was really worth its weight in gold. And what was to be
done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be
less so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for
supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible
dishes as those now before him! How many days, think you, would he
survive a continuance of this rich fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt
whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or
even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So
fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would
still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a
consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal's
victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of
money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for
some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!

"It would be quite too dear," thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his
situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our
pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat, a moment, gazing at
her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find
out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful
impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to
Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and
kissed her. He felt that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand
times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.

"My precious, precious Marygold!" cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger
bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold's forehead, a
change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it
had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops
congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same
tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within
her father's encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his
insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no
longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity,
hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woful sight that
ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there;
even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But, the
more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at
beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a
daughter. It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt
particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in
gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And now, at last,
when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart,
that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up
betwixt the earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the
fulness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and
bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor
yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image,
he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But,
stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a
yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender,
that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold,
and make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only
to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide
world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest
rose-color to his dear child's face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger
standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for
he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before,
in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of
the Golden Touch. The stranger's countenance still wore a smile, which
seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on
little Marygold's image, and on the other objects that had been
transmuted by the touch of Midas.

"Well, friend Midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with
the Golden Touch?"

Midas shook his head.

"I am very miserable," said he.

"Very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger. "And how happens that?
Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not everything
that your heart desired?"

"Gold is not everything," answered Midas. "And I have lost all that my
heart really cared for."

"Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?" observed the
stranger. "Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is
really worth the most,--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of
clear cold water?"

"O blessed water!" exclaimed Midas. "It will never moisten my parched
throat again!"

"The Golden Touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?"

"A piece of bread," answered Midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!"

"The Golden Touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little Marygold,
warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?"

"Oh my child, my dear child!" cried poor Midas, wringing his hands. "I
would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of
changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!"

"You are wiser than you were, King Midas!" said the stranger, looking
seriously at him. "Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely
changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be
desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the
commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more
valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after.
Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden
Touch?"

"It is hateful to me!" replied Midas.

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it,
too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.

"Go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides
past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water,
and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again
from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and
sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has
occasioned."

King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger
had vanished.

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great
earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched
it), and hastening to the river-side. As he scampered along, and forced
his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous to see how
the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there,
and nowhere else. On reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in,
without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.

"Poof! poof! poof!" snorted King Midas, as his head emerged out of the
water. "Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have
quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!"

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to
see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which
it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change
within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out
of his bosom. No doubt, his heart had been gradually losing its human
substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now
softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the
bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed
to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of
undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had,
therefore, really been removed from him.

King Midas hastened back to the palace; and, I suppose, the servants
knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so
carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water,
which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more
precious to Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The
first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by
handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the
rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek! and how she began to
sneeze and sputter!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping
wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!

"Pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "See how you have wet my nice
frock, which I put on only this morning!"

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor
could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she
ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very
foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser
he had now grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into the
garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the
rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses
recovered their beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however,
which, as long as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden
Touch. One was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the
other, that little Marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had
never observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his
kiss. This change of hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold's
hair richer than in her babyhood.

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot Marygold's
children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvellous story,
pretty much as I have now told it to you. And then would he stroke their
glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich
shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.

"And to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth King Midas,
diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that
morning, I have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!"


Shadow Brook

_After the Story_

"Well, children," inquired Eustace, who was very fond of eliciting a
definite opinion from his auditors, "did you ever, in all your lives,
listen to a better story than this of 'The Golden Touch'?"

"Why, as to the story of King Midas," said saucy Primrose, "it was a
famous one thousands of years before Mr. Eustace Bright came into the
world, and will continue to be so as long after he quits it. But some
people have what we may call 'The Leaden Touch,' and make everything
dull and heavy that they lay their fingers upon."

"You are a smart child, Primrose, to be not yet in your teens," said
Eustace, taken rather aback by the piquancy of her criticism. "But you
well know, in your naughty little heart, that I have burnished the old
gold of Midas all over anew, and have made it shine as it never shone
before. And then that figure of Marygold! Do you perceive no nice
workmanship in that? And how finely I have brought out and deepened the
moral! What say you, Sweet Fern, Dandelion, Clover, Periwinkle? Would
any of you, after hearing this story, be so foolish as to desire the
faculty of changing things to gold?"

"I should like," said Periwinkle, a girl of ten, "to have the power of
turning everything to gold with my right forefinger; but, with my left
forefinger, I should want the power of changing it back again, if the
first change did not please me. And I know what I would do, this very
afternoon!"

"Pray tell me," said Eustace.

"Why," answered Periwinkle, "I would touch every one of these golden
leaves on the trees with my left forefinger, and make them all green
again; so that we might have the summer back at once, with no ugly
winter in the mean time."

"O Periwinkle!" cried Eustace Bright, "there you are wrong, and would do
a great deal of mischief. Were I Midas, I would make nothing else but
just such golden days as these over and over again, all the year
throughout. My best thoughts always come a little too late. Why did not
I tell you how old King Midas came to America, and changed the dusky
autumn, such as it is in other countries, into the burnished beauty
which it here puts on? He gilded the leaves of the great volume of
Nature."

"Cousin Eustace," said Sweet Fern, a good little boy, who was always
making particular inquiries about the precise height of giants and the
littleness of fairies, "how big was Marygold, and how much did she weigh
after she was turned to gold?"

"She was about as tall as you are," replied Eustace, "and, as gold is
very heavy, she weighed at least two thousand pounds, and might have
been coined into thirty or forty thousand gold dollars. I wish Primrose
were worth half as much. Come, little people, let us clamber out of the
dell, and look about us."

They did so. The sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark,
and filled the great hollow of the valley with its western radiance, so
that it seemed to be brimming with mellow light, and to spill it over
the surrounding hill-sides, like golden wine out of a bowl. It was such
a day that you could not help saying of it, "There never was such a day
before!" although yesterday was just such a day, and to-morrow will be
just such another. Ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's
circle! It is a remarkable peculiarity of these October days, that each
of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the sun rises
rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little
children ought, at sober six o'clock, or even earlier. We cannot,
therefore, call the days long; but they appear, somehow or other, to
make up for their shortness by their breadth; and when the cool night
comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since
morning.

"Come, children, come!" cried Eustace Bright. "More nuts, more nuts,
more nuts! Fill all your baskets; and, at Christmas time, I will crack
them for you, and tell you beautiful stories!"

So away they went; all of them in excellent spirits, except little
Dandelion, who, I am sorry to tell you, had been sitting on a
chestnut-bur, and was stuck as full as a pincushion of its prickles.
Dear me, how uncomfortably he must have felt!




THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN


Tanglewood Play-Room

_Introductory to "The Paradise of Children"_

The golden days of October passed away, as so many other Octobers have,
and brown November likewise, and the greater part of chill December,
too. At last came merry Christmas, and Eustace Bright along with it,
making it all the merrier by his presence. And, the day after his
arrival from college, there came a mighty snow-storm. Up to this time,
the winter had held back, and had given us a good many mild days, which
were like smiles upon its wrinkled visage. The grass had kept itself
green, in sheltered places, such as the nooks of southern hill-slopes,
and along the lee of the stone fences. It was but a week or two ago, and
since the beginning of the month, that the children had found a
dandelion in bloom, on the margin of Shadow Brook, where it glides out
of the dell.

But no more green grass and dandelions now. This was such a snow-storm!
Twenty miles of it might have been visible at once, between the windows
of Tanglewood and the dome of Taconic, had it been possible to see so
far among the eddying drifts that whitened all the atmosphere. It seemed
as if the hills were giants, and were flinging monstrous handfuls of
snow at one another, in their enormous sport. So thick were the
fluttering snow-flakes, that even the trees, midway down the valley,
were hidden by them the greater part of the time. Sometimes, it is
true, the little prisoners of Tanglewood could discern a dim outline of
Monument Mountain, and the smooth whiteness of the frozen lake at its
base, and the black or gray tracts of woodland in the nearer landscape.
But these were merely peeps through the tempest.

Nevertheless, the children rejoiced greatly in the snow-storm. They had
already made acquaintance with it, by tumbling heels over head into its
highest drifts, and flinging snow at one another, as we have just
fancied the Berkshire mountains to be doing. And now they had come back
to their spacious play-room, which was as big as the great drawing-room,
and was lumbered with all sorts of playthings, large and small. The
biggest was a rocking-horse, that looked like a real pony; and there was
a whole family of wooden, waxen, plaster, and china dolls, besides
rag-babies; and blocks enough to build Bunker Hill Monument, and
nine-pins, and balls, and humming tops, and battledores, and
grace-sticks, and skipping-ropes, and more of such valuable property
than I could tell of in a printed page. But the children liked the
snow-storm better than them all. It suggested so many brisk enjoyments
for to-morrow, and all the remainder of the winter. The sleigh-ride; the
slides down hill into the valley; the snow-images that were to be shaped
out; the snow-fortresses that were to be built; and the snowballing to
be carried on!

So the little folks blessed the snow-storm, and were glad to see it come
thicker and thicker, and watched hopefully the long drift that was
piling itself up in the avenue, and was already higher than any of their
heads.

"Why, we shall be blocked up till spring!" cried they, with the hugest
delight. "What a pity that the house is too high to be quite covered up!
The little red house, down yonder, will be buried up to its eaves."

"You silly children, what do you want of more snow?" asked Eustace,
who, tired of some novel that he was skimming through, had strolled into
the play-room. "It has done mischief enough already, by spoiling the
only skating that I could hope for through the winter. We shall see
nothing more of the lake till April; and this was to have been my first
day upon it! Don't you pity me, Primrose?"

"Oh, to be sure!" answered Primrose, laughing. "But, for your comfort,
we will listen to another of your old stories, such as you told us under
the porch, and down in the hollow, by Shadow Brook. Perhaps I shall like
them better now, when there is nothing to do, than while there were nuts
to be gathered, and beautiful weather to enjoy."

Hereupon, Periwinkle, Clover, Sweet Fern, and as many others of the
little fraternity and cousinhood as were still at Tanglewood, gathered
about Eustace, and earnestly besought him for a story. The student
yawned, stretched himself, and then, to the vast admiration of the small
people, skipped three times back and forth over the top of a chair, in
order, as he explained to them, to set his wits in motion.

"Well, well, children," said he, after these preliminaries, "since you
insist, and Primrose has set her heart upon it, I will see what can be
done for you. And, that you may know what happy days there were before
snow-storms came into fashion, I will tell you a story of the oldest of
all old times, when the world was as new as Sweet Fern's bran-new
humming-top. There was then but one season in the year, and that was the
delightful summer; and but one age for mortals, and that was childhood."

"I never heard of that before," said Primrose.

"Of course, you never did," answered Eustace. "It shall be a story of
what nobody but myself ever dreamed of,--a Paradise of children,--and
how, by the naughtiness of just such a little imp as Primrose here, it
all came to nothing."

So Eustace Bright sat down in the chair which he had just been skipping
over, took Cowslip upon his knee, ordered silence throughout the
auditory, and began a story about a sad naughty child, whose name was
Pandora, and about her playfellow Epimetheus. You may read it, word for
word, in the pages that come next.


The Paradise of Children

Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was
a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and,
that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country, to live with him, and be his
playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.

The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which
she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,--

"Epimetheus, what have you in that box?"

"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and
you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was
left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains."

"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?"

"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.

"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way!"

"Oh come, don't think of it any more," cried Epimetheus. "Let us run out
of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."

It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was
in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and
mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor
trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always
plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it
growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he
could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide,
he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast. It was a very pleasant
life indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but
sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or carolling
like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong
day.

What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarrelled among
themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first
began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a
corner, and sulked. Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in? The
truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are
now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the
earth. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child
had ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to
discover the secret of the mysterious box.

This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it
grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage
of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other
children.

"Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to
herself and to Epimetheus. "And what in the world can be inside of it?"

"Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus, at last; for he had
grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would
try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe
figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper. And I know a vine
that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted."

"Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora, pettishly.

[Illustration: PANDORA]

"Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like
a multitude of children in those days, "let us run out and have a merry
time with our playmates."

"I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!"
answered our pettish little Pandora. "And, besides, I never do have any.
This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time. I
insist upon your telling me what is inside of it."

"As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied
Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is
inside?"

"You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, "and
then we could see for ourselves."

"Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus.

And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box,
which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it,
that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still, however,
she could not help thinking and talking about the box.

"At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."

"It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came, by
a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly
forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd kind of a
cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so
that it looked almost as if it had wings."

"What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.

"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was
like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally
that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive."

"I know him," said Pandora, thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a
staff. It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the box.
No doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains pretty
dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or
something very nice for us both to eat!"

"Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until Quicksilver
comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the
lid of the box."

"What a dull boy he is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the
cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!"

For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without
asking Pandora to accompany him. He went to gather figs and grapes by
himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society
than his little playfellow's. He was tired to death of hearing about the
box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was the
messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where Pandora
would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did babble
about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the box! It
seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big
enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually stumbling over it, and
making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of
their shins.

Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his
ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the
earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they
knew not how to deal with them. Thus, a small vexation made as much
disturbance then, as a far bigger one would in our own times.

After Epimetheus was gone, Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had
called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had
said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture,
and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be
placed. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich
veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that
little Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other
looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this
account.

The edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill.
Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the
prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of
flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely
represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers,
foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled
beauty. But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved
foliage, Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so
lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the
beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more closely, and
touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the
kind. Some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly
by her catching a sideway glimpse at it.

The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief,
in the centre of the lid. There was nothing else, save the dark, smooth
richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, with a
garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a
great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked,
or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features,
indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which
looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and
utter itself in words.

Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:

"Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box?
Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and have
ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not find
something very pretty!"

The box, I had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor
by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold
cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never
was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which
roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet,
by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more
tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three
times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between
her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.

"I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it was
done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again, after undoing it. There
would be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me for
that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the
foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied."

It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to
do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly
thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before
any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too
much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among
the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes,
or at whatever other games had been found out, while Mother Earth was in
her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the real play. There was
absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and dusting about the
cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only
too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little
Pandora's day's work was over. And then, for the rest of the day, there
was the box!

After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in
its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and
to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was in
good-humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the
rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. Or,
if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it
with her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the box--(but it was a
mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick
did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our
active-minded little Pandora would not have known half so well how to
spend her time as she now did.

For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What
could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits
would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might
have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your
Christmas or New-Year's gifts. Do you think that you should be less
curious than Pandora? If you were left alone with the box, might you not
feel a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do it. Oh, fie!
No, no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very
hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! I know not
whether Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made,
probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything
for the children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora was convinced that
there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and
therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these little
girls, here around me, would have felt. And, possibly, a little more so;
but of that I am not quite so certain.

On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking
about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at
last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to open
it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora!

First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite too heavy for
the slender strength of a child, like Pandora. She raised one end of the
box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty
loud thump. A moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she heard
something stir inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as
possible, and listened. Positively, there did seem to be a kind of
stifled murmur, within! Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears?
Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite
satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all
events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.

As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.

"It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said
Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it nevertheless. I am
resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."

So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its
intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or
quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in
attempting to undo it. Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the
open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing
at a distance, and perhaps the voice of Epimetheus among them. Pandora
stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser,
if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about
the box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy?

All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with
the knot; and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid
of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.

"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether
it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the
world to run away!"

But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a
twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself,
as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.

"This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will
Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"

She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it
quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she
could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into
one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of
the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was
to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was until
Epimetheus should come in.

"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I
have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into
the box?"

And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she
would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well
do so at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should
have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what
was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or
believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of
the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had
not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small
voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there
was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear,--or else it was her
curiosity that whispered,--

"Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty
playfellows for you! Only let us out!"

"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?
Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and
then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly
be any harm in just one little peep!"

But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.

This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell
with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did
not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on
other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus
had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at
all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. There was no
mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own
accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so
uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what
was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed
him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that, at the time
we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be
happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul
or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the
beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts.

At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the
play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a
humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her pleasure,
he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to
put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely,--roses, and lilies, and
orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance
behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put
together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy.
The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the
fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days,
rather better than they can now.

And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in
the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to
intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.

He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,
and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be
aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his
treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he
pleased,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, I was going to say, as
an elephant,--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his
footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his
entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and
was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her.
If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and
the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.

But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his
own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora
was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow
should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were
anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to
himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining
her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly
as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what
happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise.

As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for
the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have
buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling
and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But
Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and
looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures
brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same
instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as
if he were in pain.

"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora! why have you
opened this wicked box?"

Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see
what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room
that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a
disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic
mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor-bugs, and pinching-dogs,
were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the
imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats'
wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings
in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was
it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain
and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub
about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and
would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run
and brushed it away.

Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made
their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole
family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great
many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty
Sorrows; there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful
shapes; there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use
to talk about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls
and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given
to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy
children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been
faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would
ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear,
from that hour until this moment.

But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a
calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that
miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing
her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem
very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you
will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in
their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they did
was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of
them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and so
pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of
them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And, what was very
singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which
had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a
day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their
childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and
maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they
dreamed of such a thing.

Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,
remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and
were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them,
because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the
world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could
have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly
bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In order to
indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with
his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and
rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying
bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.

Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.

"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head.

But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of
humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.

"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!"

Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand,
knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.

"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
"Who are you, inside of this naughty box?"

A sweet little voice spoke from within,--

"Only lift the lid, and you shall see."

"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob, "I have had enough
of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and
there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters
already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so
foolish as to let you out!"

She looked towards Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he
would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that
she was wise a little too late.

"Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me
out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their
tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at
once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty
Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"

And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that
made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice
asked. Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter, at every word that
came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner,
had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than
before.

"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?"

"Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good-humor as yet.
"And what of it?"

"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.

"Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief
already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other
Trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can
make no very great difference."

"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her
eyes.

"Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and
laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora,
lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have
some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so
dismal as you think them!"

"Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open
the box!"

"And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the
room, "I will help you!"

So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a
sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing
a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into
dark corners, by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so
looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger, amid the
gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch
of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and
immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the
forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.

After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered
sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them,
that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened
the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a
prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.

"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora.

"I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I
am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box, to make amends
to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which was destined to
be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well in spite of
them all."

"Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very
beautiful!"

"Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature
is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles."

"And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?"

"As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile,--"and that
will be as long as you live in the world,--I promise never to desert
you. There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think
that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when
perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on
the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know something
very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!"

"Oh tell us," they exclaimed,--"tell us what it is!"

"Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
"But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on
this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true."

"We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.

And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,
that has since been alive. And to tell you the truth, I cannot help
being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for
her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped
into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about
the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and
are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their
tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more, as I grow
older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope! What in
the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the earth; Hope
makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect,
Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter!


Tanglewood Play-Room

_After the Story_

"Primrose," asked Eustace, pinching her ear, "how do you like my little
Pandora? Don't you think her the exact picture of yourself? But you
would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box."

"Then I should have been well punished for my naughtiness," retorted
Primrose, smartly; "for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was
lifted, would have been Mr. Eustace Bright, in the shape of a Trouble."

"Cousin Eustace," said Sweet Fern, "did the box hold all the trouble
that has ever come into the world?"

"Every mite of it!" answered Eustace. "This very snow-storm, which has
spoiled my skating, was packed up there."

"And how big was the box?" asked Sweet Fern.

"Why, perhaps three feet long," said Eustace, "two feet wide, and two
feet and a half high."

"Ah," said the child, "you are making fun of me, Cousin Eustace! I know
there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as
that. As for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure; so
it could not have been in the box."

"Hear the child!" cried Primrose, with an air of superiority. "How
little he knows about the troubles of this world! Poor fellow! He will
be wiser when he has seen as much of life as I have."

So saying, she began to skip the rope.

Meantime, the day was drawing towards its close. Out of doors the scene
certainly looked dreary. There was a gray drift, far and wide, through
the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the
bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered
or gone out for a good many hours past. Had there been only one child at
the window of Tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would
perhaps have made him sad. But half a dozen children together, though
they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old Winter
and all his storms to put them out of spirits. Eustace Bright, moreover,
on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play, which
kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for the
next stormy day besides.




THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES


Tanglewood Fireside

_Introductory to "The Three Golden Apples"_

The snow-storm lasted another day; but what became of it afterwards, I
cannot possibly imagine. At any rate, it entirely cleared away during
the night; and when the sun arose the next morning, it shone brightly
down on as bleak a tract of hill-country, here in Berkshire, as could be
seen anywhere in the world. The frostwork had so covered the
window-panes that it was hardly possible to get a glimpse at the scenery
outside. But, while waiting for breakfast, the small populace of
Tanglewood had scratched peep-holes with their finger-nails, and saw
with vast delight that--unless it were one or two bare patches on a
precipitous hill-side, or the gray effect of the snow, intermingled with
the black pine forest--all nature was as white as a sheet. How
exceedingly pleasant! And, to make it all the better, it was cold enough
to nip one's nose short off! If people have but life enough in them to
bear it, there is nothing that so raises the spirits, and makes the
blood ripple and dance so nimbly, like a brook down the slope of a hill,
as a bright, hard frost.

No sooner was breakfast over, than the whole party, well muffled in furs
and woollens, floundered forth into the midst of the snow. Well, what a
day of frosty sport was this! They slid down hill into the valley, a
hundred times, nobody knows how far; and, to make it all the merrier,
upsetting their sledges, and tumbling head over heels, quite as often
as they came safely to the bottom. And, once, Eustace Bright took
Periwinkle, Sweet Fern, and Squash-Blossom, on the sledge with him, by
way of insuring a safe passage; and down they went, full speed. But,
behold, half-way down, the sledge hit against a hidden stump, and flung
all four of its passengers into a heap; and, on gathering themselves up,
there was no little Squash-Blossom to be found! Why, what could have
become of the child? And while they were wondering and staring about, up
started Squash-Blossom out of a snow-bank, with the reddest face you
ever saw, and looking as if a large scarlet flower had suddenly sprouted
up in midwinter. Then there was a great laugh.

When they had grown tired of sliding down hill, Eustace set the children
to digging a cave in the biggest snow-drift that they could find.
Unluckily, just as it was completed, and the party had squeezed
themselves into the hollow, down came the roof upon their heads, and
buried every soul of them alive! The next moment, up popped all their
little heads out of the ruins, and the tall student's head in the midst
of them, looking hoary and venerable with the snow-dust that had got
amongst his brown curls. And then, to punish Cousin Eustace for advising
them to dig such a tumble-down cavern, the children attacked him in a
body, and so bepelted him with snowballs that he was fain to take to his
heels.

So he ran away, and went into the woods, and thence to the margin of
Shadow Brook, where he could hear the streamlet grumbling along, under
great overhanging banks of snow and ice, which would scarcely let it see
the light of day. There were adamantine icicles glittering around all
its little cascades. Thence he strolled to the shore of the lake, and
beheld a white, untrodden plain before him, stretching from his own feet
to the foot of Monument Mountain. And, it being now almost sunset,
Eustace thought that he had never beheld anything so fresh and
beautiful as the scene. He was glad that the children were not with him;
for their lively spirits and tumble-about activity would quite have
chased away his higher and graver mood, so that he would merely have
been merry (as he had already been, the whole day long), and would not
have known the loveliness of the winter sunset among the hills.

When the sun was fairly down, our friend Eustace went home to eat his
supper. After the meal was over, he betook himself to the study, with a
purpose, I rather imagine, to write an ode, or two or three sonnets, or
verses of some kind or other, in praise of the purple and golden clouds
which he had seen around the setting sun. But, before he had hammered
out the very first rhyme, the door opened, and Primrose and Periwinkle
made their appearance.

"Go away, children! I can't be troubled with you now!" cried the
student, looking over his shoulder, with the pen between his fingers.
"What in the world do you want here? I thought you were all in bed!"

"Hear him, Periwinkle, trying to talk like a grown man!" said Primrose.
"And he seems to forget that I am now thirteen years old, and may sit up
almost as late as I please. But, Cousin Eustace, you must put off your
airs, and come with us to the drawing-room. The children have talked so
much about your stories, that my father wishes to hear one of them, in
order to judge whether they are likely to do any mischief."

"Poh, poh, Primrose!" exclaimed the student, rather vexed. "I don't
believe I can tell one of my stories in the presence of grown people.
Besides, your father is a classical scholar; not that I am much afraid
of his scholarship, neither, for I doubt not it is as rusty as an old
case-knife by this time. But then he will be sure to quarrel with the
admirable nonsense that I put into these stories, out of my own head,
and which makes the great charm of the matter for children, like
yourself. No man of fifty, who has read the classical myths in his
youth, can possibly understand my merit as a reinventor and improver of
them."

"All this may be very true," said Primrose, "but come you must! My
father will not open his book, nor will mamma open the piano, till you
have given us some of your nonsense, as you very correctly call it. So
be a good boy, and come along."

Whatever he might pretend, the student was rather glad than otherwise,
on second thoughts, to catch at the opportunity of proving to Mr.
Pringle what an excellent faculty he had in modernizing the myths of
ancient times. Until twenty years of age, a young man may, indeed, be
rather bashful about showing his poetry and his prose; but, for all
that, he is pretty apt to think that these very productions would place
him at the tip-top of literature, if once they could be known.
Accordingly, without much more resistance, Eustace suffered Primrose and
Periwinkle to drag him into the drawing-room.

It was a large, handsome apartment, with a semicircular window at one
end, in the recess of which stood a marble copy of Greenough's Angel and
Child. On one side of the fireplace there were many shelves of books,
gravely but richly bound. The white light of the astral-lamp, and the
red glow of the bright coal-fire, made the room brilliant and cheerful;
and before the fire, in a deep arm-chair, sat Mr. Pringle, looking just
fit to be seated in such a chair, and in such a room. He was a tall and
quite a handsome gentleman, with a bald brow; and was always so nicely
dressed, that even Eustace Bright never liked to enter his presence
without at least pausing at the threshold to settle his shirt-collar.
But now, as Primrose had hold of one of his hands, and Periwinkle of the
other, he was forced to make his appearance with a rough-and-tumble sort
of look, as if he had been rolling all day in a snow-bank. And so he
had.

Mr. Pringle turned towards the student benignly enough, but in a way
that made him feel how uncombed and unbrushed he was, and how uncombed
and unbrushed, likewise, were his mind and thoughts.

"Eustace," said Mr. Pringle, with a smile, "I find that you are
producing a great sensation among the little public of Tanglewood, by
the exercise of your gifts of narrative. Primrose here, as the little
folks choose to call her, and the rest of the children, have been so
loud in praise of your stories, that Mrs. Pringle and myself are really
curious to hear a specimen. It would be so much the more gratifying to
myself, as the stories appear to be an attempt to render the fables of
classical antiquity into the idiom of modern fancy and feeling. At
least, so I judge from a few of the incidents which have come to me at
second hand."

"You are not exactly the auditor that I should have chosen, sir,"
observed the student, "for fantasies of this nature."

"Possibly not," replied Mr. Pringle. "I suspect, however, that a young
author's most useful critic is precisely the one whom he would be least
apt to choose. Pray oblige me, therefore."

"Sympathy, methinks, should have some little share in the critic's
qualifications," murmured Eustace Bright. "However, sir, if you will
find patience, I will find stories. But be kind enough to remember that
I am addressing myself to the imagination and sympathies of the
children, not to your own."

Accordingly, the student snatched hold of the first theme which
presented itself. It was suggested by a plate of apples that he happened
to spy on the mantelpiece.


The Three Golden Apples

Did you ever hear of the golden apples, that grew in the garden of the
Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price, by
the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of
nowadays! But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit
on a single tree in the wide world. Not so much as a seed of those
apples exists any longer.

And, even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of
the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted
whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon
their branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have
seen any. Children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to
stories of the golden apple-tree, and resolved to discover it, when they
should be big enough. Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver
thing than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit. Many of
them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples. No wonder
that they found it impossible to gather them! It is said that there was
a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which
were always on the watch, while the other fifty slept.

In my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a
solid golden apple. Had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed
that would be another matter. There might then have been some sense in
trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon.

But, as I have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young
persons, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the
garden of the Hesperides. And once the adventure was undertaken by a
hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the
world. At the time of which I am going to speak, he was wandering
through the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand, and
a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He was wrapt in the skin of
the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he
himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind, and generous,
and noble, there was a good deal of the lion's fierceness in his heart.
As he went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the
right road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew
anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed
at the question, if the stranger had not carried so very big a club.

So he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at
last, he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women
sat twining wreaths of flowers.

"Can you tell me, pretty maidens," asked the stranger, "whether this is
the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?"

The young women had been having a fine time together, weaving the
flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads. And there seemed
to be a kind of magic in the touch of their fingers, that made the
flowers more fresh and dewy, and of brighter hues, and sweeter
fragrance, while they played with them, than even when they had been
growing on their native stems. But, on hearing the stranger's question,
they dropped all their flowers on the grass, and gazed at him with
astonishment.

"The garden of the Hesperides!" cried one. "We thought mortals had been
weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments. And pray,
adventurous traveller, what do you want there?"

[Illustration: ATLAS]

"A certain king, who is my cousin," replied he, "has ordered me to get
him three of the golden apples."

"Most of the young men who go in quest of these apples," observed
another of the damsels, "desire to obtain them for themselves, or to
present them to some fair maiden whom they love. Do you, then, love this
king, your cousin, so very much?"

"Perhaps not," replied the stranger, sighing. "He has often been severe
and cruel to me. But it is my destiny to obey him."

"And do you know," asked the damsel who had first spoken, "that a
terrible dragon, with a hundred heads, keeps watch under the golden
apple-tree?"

"I know it well," answered the stranger, calmly. "But, from my cradle
upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with
serpents and dragons."

The young women looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion's
skin which he wore, and likewise at his heroic limbs and figure; and
they whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who
might reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of other
men. But, then, the dragon with a hundred heads! What mortal, even if he
possessed a hundred lives, could hope to escape the fangs of such a
monster? So kind-hearted were the maidens, that they could not bear to
see this brave and handsome traveller attempt what was so very
dangerous, and devote himself, most probably, to become a meal for the
dragon's hundred ravenous mouths.

"Go back," cried they all,--"go back to your own home! Your mother,
beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she
do more, should you win ever so great a victory? No matter for the
golden apples! No matter for the king, your cruel cousin! We do not wish
the dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up!"

The stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances. He
carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay
half buried in the earth, near by. With the force of that idle blow, the
great rock was shattered all to pieces. It cost the stranger no more
effort to achieve this feat of a giant's strength than for one of the
young maidens to touch her sister's rosy cheek with a flower.

"Do you not believe," said he, looking at the damsels with a smile,
"that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon's hundred heads?"

Then he sat down on the grass, and told them the story of his life, or
as much of it as he could remember, from the day when he was first
cradled in a warrior's brazen shield. While he lay there, two immense
serpents came gliding over the floor, and opened their hideous jaws to
devour him; and he, a baby of a few months old, had griped one of the
fierce snakes in each of his little fists, and strangled them to death.
When he was but a stripling, he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as
the one whose vast and shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders. The
next thing that he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly sort of
monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads, and
exceedingly sharp teeth in every one.

"But the dragon of the Hesperides, you know," observed one of the
damsels, "has a hundred heads!"

"Nevertheless," replied the stranger, "I would rather fight two such
dragons than a single hydra. For, as fast as I cut off a head, two
others grew in its place; and, besides, there was one of the heads that
could not possibly be killed, but kept biting as fiercely as ever, long
after it was cut off. So I was forced to bury it under a stone, where it
is doubtless alive to this very day. But the hydra's body, and its eight
other heads, will never do any further mischief."

The damsels, judging that the story was likely to last a good while, had
been preparing a repast of bread and grapes, that the stranger might
refresh himself in the intervals of his talk. They took pleasure in
helping him to this simple food; and, now and then, one of them would
put a sweet grape between her rosy lips, lest it should make him bashful
to eat alone.

The traveller proceeded to tell how he had chased a very swift stag, for
a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at
last caught it by the antlers, and carried it home alive. And he had
fought with a very odd race of people, half horses and half men, and had
put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly
figures might never be seen any more. Besides all this, he took to
himself great credit for having cleaned out a stable.

"Do you call that a wonderful exploit?" asked one of the young maidens,
with a smile. "Any clown in the country has done as much!"

"Had it been an ordinary stable," replied the stranger, "I should not
have mentioned it. But this was so gigantic a task that it would have
taken me all my life to perform it, if I had not luckily thought of
turning the channel of a river through the stable-door. That did the
business in a very short time!"

Seeing how earnestly his fair auditors listened, he next told them how
he had shot some monstrous birds, and had caught a wild bull alive and
let him go again, and had tamed a number of very wild horses, and had
conquered Hippolyta, the warlike queen of the Amazons. He mentioned,
likewise, that he had taken off Hippolyta's enchanted girdle, and had
given it to the daughter of his cousin, the king.

"Was it the girdle of Venus," inquired the prettiest of the damsels,
"which makes women beautiful?"

"No," answered the stranger. "It had formerly been the sword-belt of
Mars; and it can only make the wearer valiant and courageous."

"An old sword-belt!" cried the damsel, tossing her head. "Then I should
not care about having it!"

"You are right," said the stranger.

Going on with his wonderful narrative, he informed the maidens that as
strange an adventure as ever happened was when he fought with Geryon,
the six-legged man. This was a very odd and frightful sort of figure, as
you may well believe. Any person, looking at his tracks in the sand or
snow, would suppose that three sociable companions had been walking
along together. On hearing his footsteps at a little distance, it was no
more than reasonable to judge that several people must be coming. But it
was only the strange man Geryon clattering onward, with his six legs!

Six legs, and one gigantic body! Certainly, he must have been a very
queer monster to look at; and, my stars, what a waste of shoe-leather!

When the stranger had finished the story of his adventures, he looked
around at the attentive faces of the maidens.

"Perhaps you may have heard of me before," said he, modestly. "My name
is Hercules!"

"We had already guessed it," replied the maidens; "for your wonderful
deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange, any
longer, that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the
Hesperides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!"

Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty
shoulders, so that the lion's skin was almost entirely covered with
roses. They took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it
about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms, that not
a finger's breadth of its oaken substance could be seen. It looked all
like a huge bunch of flowers. Lastly, they joined hands, and danced
around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own accord, and
grew into a choral song, in honor of the illustrious Hercules.

And Hercules was rejoiced, as any other hero would have been, to know
that these fair young girls had heard of the valiant deeds which it had
cost him so much toil and danger to achieve. But, still, he was not
satisfied. He could not think that what he had already done was worthy
of so much honor, while there remained any bold or difficult adventure
to be undertaken.

"Dear maidens," said he, when they paused to take breath, "now that you
know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of the
Hesperides?"

"Ah! must you go so soon?" they exclaimed. "You--that have performed so
many wonders, and spent such a toilsome life--cannot you content
yourself to repose a little while on the margin of this peaceful river?"

Hercules shook his head.

"I must depart now," said he.

"We will then give you the best directions we can," replied the damsels.
"You must go to the sea-shore, and find out the Old One, and compel him
to inform you where the golden apples are to be found."

"The Old One!" repeated Hercules, laughing at this odd name. "And, pray,
who may the Old One be?"

"Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure!" answered one of the damsels.
"He has fifty daughters, whom some people call very beautiful; but we do
not think it proper to be acquainted with them, because they have
sea-green hair, and taper away like fishes. You must talk with this Old
Man of the Sea. He is a sea-faring person, and knows all about the
garden of the Hesperides; for it is situated in an island which he is
often in the habit of visiting."

Hercules then asked whereabouts the Old One was most likely to be met
with. When the damsels had informed him, he thanked them for all their
kindness,--for the bread and grapes with which they had fed him, the
lovely flowers with which they had crowned him, and the songs and dances
wherewith they had done him honor,--and he thanked them, most of all,
for telling him the right way,--and immediately set forth upon his
journey.

But, before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after him.

"Keep fast hold of the Old One, when you catch him!" cried she, smiling,
and lifting her finger to make the caution more impressive. "Do not be
astonished at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast, and he will
tell you what you wish to know."

Hercules again thanked her, and pursued his way, while the maidens
resumed their pleasant labor of making flower-wreaths. They talked about
the hero, long after he was gone.

"We will crown him with the loveliest of our garlands," said they, "when
he returns hither with the three golden apples, after slaying the dragon
with a hundred heads."

Meanwhile, Hercules travelled constantly onward, over hill and dale, and
through the solitary woods. Sometimes he swung his club aloft, and
splintered a mighty oak with a downright blow. His mind was so full of
the giants and monsters with whom it was the business of his life to
fight, that perhaps he mistook the great tree for a giant or a monster.
And so eager was Hercules to achieve what he had undertaken, that he
almost regretted to have spent so much time with the damsels, wasting
idle breath upon the story of his adventures. But thus it always is with
persons who are destined to perform great things. What they have already
done seems less than nothing. What they have taken in hand to do seems
worth toil, danger, and life itself.

Persons who happened to be passing through the forest must have been
affrighted to see him smite the trees with his great club. With but a
single blow, the trunk was riven as by the stroke of lightning, and the
broad boughs came rustling and crashing down.

Hastening forward, without ever pausing or looking behind, he by and by
heard the sea roaring at a distance. At this sound, he increased his
speed, and soon came to a beach, where the great surf-waves tumbled
themselves upon the hard sand, in a long line of snowy foam. At one end
of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot, where some green
shrubbery clambered up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and
beautiful. A carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with
sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of
the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules espy there, but an old
man, fast asleep!

But was it really and truly an old man? Certainly, at first sight, it
looked very like one; but, on closer inspection, it rather seemed to be
some kind of a creature that lived in the sea. For, on his legs and arms
there were scales, such as fishes have; he was web-footed and
web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, being of
a greenish tinge, had more the appearance of a tuft of sea-weed than of
an ordinary beard. Have you never seen a stick of timber, that has been
long tossed about by the waves, and has got all overgrown with
barnacles, and, at last drifting ashore, seems to have been thrown up
from the very deepest bottom of the sea? Well, the old man would have
put you in mind of just such a wave-tost spar! But Hercules, the instant
he set eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it could be no
other than the Old One, who was to direct him on his way.

Yes, it was the selfsame Old Man of the Sea whom the hospitable maidens
had talked to him about. Thanking his stars for the lucky accident of
finding the old fellow asleep, Hercules stole on tiptoe towards him, and
caught him by the arm and leg.

"Tell me," cried he, before the Old One was well awake, "which is the
way to the garden of the Hesperides?"

As you may easily imagine, the Old Man of the Sea awoke in a fright.
But his astonishment could hardly have been greater than was that of
Hercules, the next moment. For, all of a sudden, the Old One seemed to
disappear out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the
fore and hind leg! But still he kept fast hold. Then the stag
disappeared, and in its stead there was a sea-bird, fluttering and
screaming, while Hercules clutched it by the wing and claw! But the bird
could not get away. Immediately afterwards, there was an ugly
three-headed dog, which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped
fiercely at the hands by which he held him! But Hercules would not let
him go. In another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should
appear but Geryon, the six-legged man-monster, kicking at Hercules with
five of his legs, in order to get the remaining one at liberty! But
Hercules held on. By and by, no Geryon was there, but a huge snake, like
one of those which Hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a
hundred times as big; and it twisted and twined about the hero's neck
and body, and threw its tail high into the air, and opened its deadly
jaws as if to devour him outright; so that it was really a very terrible
spectacle! But Hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great
snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain.

You must understand that the Old Man of the Sea, though he generally
looked so much like the wave-beaten figure-head of a vessel, had the
power of assuming any shape he pleased. When he found himself so roughly
seized by Hercules, he had been in hopes of putting him into such
surprise and terror, by these magical transformations, that the hero
would be glad to let him go. If Hercules had relaxed his grasp, the Old
One would certainly have plunged down to the very bottom of the sea,
whence he would not soon have given himself the trouble of coming up, in
order to answer any impertinent questions. Ninety-nine people out of a
hundred, I suppose, would have been frightened out of their wits by the
very first of his ugly shapes, and would have taken to their heels at
once. For, one of the hardest things in this world is, to see the
difference between real dangers and imaginary ones.

But, as Hercules held on so stubbornly, and only squeezed the Old One so
much the tighter at every change of shape, and really put him to no
small torture, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure.
So there he was again, a fishy, scaly, web-footed sort of personage,
with something like a tuft of sea-weed at his chin.

"Pray, what do you want with me?" cried the Old One, as soon as he could
take breath; for it is quite a tiresome affair to go through so many
false shapes. "Why do you squeeze me so hard? Let me go, this moment, or
I shall begin to consider you an extremely uncivil person!"

"My name is Hercules!" roared the mighty stranger. "And you will never
get out of my clutch, until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of
the Hesperides!"

When the old fellow heard who it was that had caught him, he saw, with
half an eye, that it would be necessary to tell him everything that he
wanted to know. The Old One was an inhabitant of the sea, you must
recollect, and roamed about everywhere, like other sea-faring people. Of
course, he had often heard of the fame of Hercules, and of the wonderful
things that he was constantly performing, in various parts of the earth,
and how determined he always was to accomplish whatever he undertook. He
therefore made no more attempts to escape, but told the hero how to find
the garden of the Hesperides, and likewise warned him of many
difficulties which must be overcome, before he could arrive thither.

"You must go on, thus and thus," said the Old Man of the Sea, after
taking the points of the compass, "till you come in sight of a very tall
giant, who holds the sky on his shoulders. And the giant, if he happens
to be in the humor, will tell you exactly where the garden of the
Hesperides lies."

"And if the giant happens not to be in the humor," remarked Hercules,
balancing his club on the tip of his finger, "perhaps I shall find means
to persuade him!"

Thanking the Old Man of the Sea, and begging his pardon for having
squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey. He met with a
great many strange adventures, which would be well worth your hearing,
if I had leisure to narrate them as minutely as they deserve.

It was in this journey, if I mistake not, that he encountered a
prodigious giant, who was so wonderfully contrived by nature, that,
every time he touched the earth, he became ten times as strong as ever
he had been before. His name was Antaeus. You may see, plainly enough,
that it was a very difficult business to fight with such a fellow; for,
as often as he got a knock-down blow, up he started again, stronger,
fiercer, and abler to use his weapons, than if his enemy had let him
alone. Thus, the harder Hercules pounded the giant with his club, the
further he seemed from winning the victory. I have sometimes argued with
such people, but never fought with one. The only way in which Hercules
found it possible to finish the battle, was by lifting Antaeus off his
feet into the air, and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing him,
until, finally, the strength was quite squeezed out of his enormous
body.

When this affair was finished, Hercules continued his travels, and went
to the land of Egypt, where he was taken prisoner, and would have been
put to death, if he had not slain the king of the country, and made his
escape. Passing through the deserts of Africa, and going as fast as he
could, he arrived at last on the shore of the great ocean. And here,
unless he could walk on the crests of the billows, it seemed as if his
journey must needs be at an end.

Nothing was before him, save the foaming, dashing, measureless ocean.
But, suddenly, as he looked towards the horizon, he saw something, a
great way off, which he had not seen the moment before. It gleamed very
brightly, almost as you may have beheld the round, golden disk of the
sun, when it rises or sets over the edge of the world. It evidently drew
nearer; for, at every instant, this wonderful object became larger and
more lustrous. At length, it had come so nigh that Hercules discovered
it to be an immense cup or bowl, made either of gold or burnished brass.
How it had got afloat upon the sea is more than I can tell you. There it
was, at all events, rolling on the tumultuous billows, which tossed it
up and down, and heaved their foamy tops against its sides, but without
ever throwing their spray over the brim.

"I have seen many giants, in my time," thought Hercules, "but never one
that would need to drink his wine out of a cup like this!"

And, true enough, what a cup it must have been! It was as large--as
large--but, in short, I am afraid to say how immeasurably large it was.
To speak within bounds, it was ten times larger than a great mill-wheel;
and, all of metal as it was, it floated over the heaving surges more
lightly than an acorn-cup adown the brook. The waves tumbled it onward,
until it grazed against the shore, within a short distance of the spot
where Hercules was standing.

As soon as this happened, he knew what was to be done; for he had not
gone through so many remarkable adventures without learning pretty well
how to conduct himself, whenever anything came to pass a little out of
the common rule. It was just as clear as daylight that this marvellous
cup had been set adrift by some unseen power, and guided hitherward, in
order to carry Hercules across the sea, on his way to the garden of the
Hesperides. Accordingly, without a moment's delay, he clambered over
the brim, and slid down on the inside, where, spreading out his lion's
skin, he proceeded to take a little repose. He had scarcely rested,
until now, since he bade farewell to the damsels on the margin of the
river. The waves dashed, with a pleasant and ringing sound, against the
circumference of the hollow cup; it rocked lightly to and fro, and the
motion was so soothing that it speedily rocked Hercules into an
agreeable slumber.

His nap had probably lasted a good while, when the cup chanced to graze
against a rock, and, in consequence, immediately resounded and
reverberated through its golden or brazen substance, a hundred times as
loudly as ever you heard a church-bell. The noise awoke Hercules, who
instantly started up and gazed around him, wondering whereabouts he was.
He was not long in discovering that the cup had floated across a great
part of the sea, and was approaching the shore of what seemed to be an
island. And, on that island, what do you think he saw?

No; you will never guess it, not if you were to try fifty thousand
times! It positively appears to me that this was the most marvellous
spectacle that had ever been seen by Hercules, in the whole course of
his wonderful travels and adventures. It was a greater marvel than the
hydra with nine heads, which kept growing twice as fast as they were cut
off; greater than the six-legged man-monster; greater than Antaeus;
greater than anything that was ever beheld by anybody, before or since
the days of Hercules, or than anything that remains to be beheld, by
travellers in all time to come. It was a giant!

But such an intolerably big giant! A giant as tall as a mountain; so
vast a giant, that the clouds rested about his midst, like a girdle, and
hung like a hoary beard from his chin, and flitted before his huge eyes,
so that he could neither see Hercules nor the golden cup in which he was
voyaging. And, most wonderful of all, the giant held up his great hands
and appeared to support the sky, which, so far as Hercules could discern
through the clouds, was resting upon his head! This does really seem
almost too much to believe.

Meanwhile, the bright cup continued to float onward, and finally touched
the strand. Just then a breeze wafted away the clouds from before the
giant's visage, and Hercules beheld it, with all its enormous features;
eyes each of them as big as yonder lake, a nose a mile long, and a mouth
of the same width. It was a countenance terrible from its enormity of
size, but disconsolate and weary, even as you may see the faces of many
people, nowadays, who are compelled to sustain burdens above their
strength. What the sky was to the giant, such are the cares of earth to
those who let themselves be weighed down by them. And whenever men
undertake what is beyond the just measure of their abilities, they
encounter precisely such a doom as had befallen this poor giant.

Poor fellow! He had evidently stood there a long while. An ancient
forest had been growing and decaying around his feet; and oak-trees, of
six or seven centuries old, had sprung from the acorn, and forced
themselves between his toes.

The giant now looked down from the far height of his great eyes, and,
perceiving Hercules, roared out, in a voice that resembled thunder,
proceeding out of the cloud that had just flitted away from his face.

"Who are you, down at my feet there? And whence do you come, in that
little cup?"

"I am Hercules!" thundered back the hero, in a voice pretty nearly or
quite as loud as the giant's own. "And I am seeking for the garden of
the Hesperides!"

"Ho! ho! ho!" roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter. "That is a
wise adventure, truly!"

"And why not?" cried Hercules, getting a little angry at the giant's
mirth. "Do you think I am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads!"

Just at this time, while they were talking together, some black clouds
gathered about the giant's middle, and burst into a tremendous storm of
thunder and lightning, causing such a pother that Hercules found it
impossible to distinguish a word. Only the giant's immeasurable legs
were to be seen, standing up into the obscurity of the tempest; and, now
and then, a momentary glimpse of his whole figure, mantled in a volume
of mist. He seemed to be speaking, most of the time; but his big, deep,
rough voice chimed in with the reverberations of the thunder-claps, and
rolled away over the hills, like them. Thus, by talking out of season,
the foolish giant expended an incalculable quantity of breath, to no
purpose; for the thunder spoke quite as intelligibly as he.

At last, the storm swept over, as suddenly as it had come. And there
again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, and the
pleasant sunshine beaming over his vast height, and illuminating it
against the background of the sullen thunderclouds. So far above the
shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was moistened by the
rain-drops!

When the giant could see Hercules still standing on the sea-shore, he
roared out to him anew.

"I am Atlas, the mightiest giant in the world! And I hold the sky upon
my head!"

"So I see," answered Hercules. "But, can you show me the way to the
garden of the Hesperides?"

"What do you want there?" asked the giant.

"I want three of the golden apples," shouted Hercules, "for my cousin,
the king."

"There is nobody but myself," quoth the giant, "that can go to the
garden of the Hesperides, and gather the golden apples. If it were not
for this little business of holding up the sky, I would make half a
dozen steps across the sea, and get them for you."

"You are very kind," replied Hercules. "And cannot you rest the sky upon
a mountain?"

"None of them are quite high enough," said Atlas, shaking his head.
"But, if you were to take your stand on the summit of that nearest one,
your head would be pretty nearly on a level with mine. You seem to be a
fellow of some strength. What if you should take my burden on your
shoulders, while I do your errand for you?"

Hercules, as you must be careful to remember, was a remarkably strong
man; and though it certainly requires a great deal of muscular power to
uphold the sky, yet, if any mortal could be supposed capable of such an
exploit, he was the one. Nevertheless, it seemed so difficult an
undertaking, that, for the first time in his life, he hesitated.

"Is the sky very heavy?" he inquired.

"Why, not particularly so, at first," answered the giant, shrugging his
shoulders. "But it gets to be a little burdensome, after a thousand
years!"

"And how long a time," asked the hero, "will it take you to get the
golden apples?"

"Oh, that will be done in a few moments," cried Atlas. "I shall take ten
or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again before
your shoulders begin to ache."

"Well, then," answered Hercules, "I will climb the mountain behind you
there, and relieve you of your burden."

The truth is, Hercules had a kind heart of his own, and considered that
he should be doing the giant a favor, by allowing him this opportunity
for a ramble. And, besides, he thought that it would be still more for
his own glory, if he could boast of upholding the sky, than merely to do
so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a hundred heads.
Accordingly, without more words, the sky was shifted from the shoulders
of Atlas, and placed upon those of Hercules.

When this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did
was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious spectacle
he was then. Next, he slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest
that had grown up around it; then, the other. Then, all at once, he
began to caper, and leap, and dance, for joy at his freedom; flinging
himself nobody knows how high into the air, and floundering down again
with a shock that made the earth tremble. Then he laughed--Ho! ho!
ho!--with a thunderous roar that was echoed from the mountains, far and
near, as if they and the giant had been so many rejoicing brothers. When
his joy had a little subsided, he stepped into the sea; ten miles at the
first stride, which brought him midleg deep; and ten miles at the
second, when the water came just above his knees; and ten miles more at
the third, by which he was immersed nearly to his waist. This was the
greatest depth of the sea.

Hercules watched the giant, as he still went onward; for it was really a
wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles off,
half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall, and misty,
and blue, as a distant mountain. At last the gigantic shape faded
entirely out of view. And now Hercules began to consider what he should
do, in case Atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were to be
stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads, which guarded the
golden apples of the Hesperides. If any such misfortune were to happen,
how could he ever get rid of the sky? And, by the by, its weight began
already to be a little irksome to his head and shoulders.

"I really pity the poor giant," thought Hercules. "If it wearies me so
much in ten minutes, how must it have wearied him in a thousand years!"

O my sweet little people, you have no idea what a weight there was in
that same blue sky, which looks so soft and aerial above our heads! And
there, too, was the bluster of the wind, and the chill and watery
clouds, and the blazing sun, all taking their turns to make Hercules
uncomfortable! He began to be afraid that the giant would never come
back. He gazed wistfully at the world beneath him, and acknowledged to
himself that it was a far happier kind of life to be a shepherd at the
foot of a mountain, than to stand on its dizzy summit, and bear up the
firmament with his might and main. For, of course, as you will easily
understand, Hercules had an immense responsibility on his mind, as well
as a weight on his head and shoulders. Why, if he did not stand
perfectly still, and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be
put ajar! Or, after nightfall, a great many of the stars might be
loosened from their places, and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the
people's heads! And how ashamed would the hero be, if, owing to his
unsteadiness beneath its weight, the sky should crack, and show a great
fissure quite across it!

I know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he beheld the
huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the sea.
At his nearer approach, Atlas held up his hand, in which Hercules could
perceive three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins, all
hanging from one branch.

"I am glad to see you again," shouted Hercules, when the giant was
within hearing. "So you have got the golden apples?"

"Certainly, certainly," answered Atlas; "and very fair apples they are.
I took the finest that grew on the tree, I assure you. Ah! it is a
beautiful spot, that garden of the Hesperides. Yes; and the dragon with
a hundred heads is a sight worth any man's seeing. After all, you had
better have gone for the apples yourself."

"No matter," replied Hercules. "You have had a pleasant ramble, and have
done the business as well as I could. I heartily thank you for your
trouble. And now, as I have a long way to go, and am rather in
haste,--and as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden
apples,--will you be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders
again?"

"Why, as to that," said the giant, chucking the golden apples into the
air twenty miles high, or thereabouts and catching them as they came
down,--"as to that, my good friend, I consider you a little
unreasonable. Cannot I carry the golden apples to the king, your cousin,
much quicker than you could? As his majesty is in such a hurry to get
them, I promise you to take my longest strides. And, besides, I have no
fancy for burdening myself with the sky, just now."

Here Hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders.
It being now twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble out
of their places. Everybody on earth looked upward in affright, thinking
that the sky might be going to fall next.

"Oh, that will never do!" cried Giant Atlas, with a great roar of
laughter. "I have not let fall so many stars within the last five
centuries. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will
begin to learn patience!"

"What!" shouted Hercules, very wrathfully, "do you intend to make me
bear this burden forever?"

"We will see about that, one of these days," answered the giant. "At all
events, you ought not to complain, if you have to bear it the next
hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it a good while
longer, in spite of the back-ache. Well, then, after a thousand years,
if I happen to feel in the mood, we may possibly shift about again. You
are certainly a very strong man, and can never have a better opportunity
to prove it. Posterity will talk of you, I warrant it!"

"Pish! a fig for its talk!" cried Hercules, with another hitch of his
shoulders. "Just take the sky upon your head one instant, will you? I
want to make a cushion of my lion's skin, for the weight to rest upon.
It really chafes me, and will cause unnecessary inconvenience in so
many centuries as I am to stand here."

"That's no more than fair, and I'll do it!" quoth the giant; for he had
no unkind feeling towards Hercules, and was merely acting with a too
selfish consideration of his own ease. "For just five minutes, then,
I'll take back the sky. Only for five minutes, recollect! I have no idea
of spending another thousand years as I spent the last. Variety is the
spice of life, say I."

Ah, the thick-witted old rogue of a giant! He threw down the golden
apples, and received back the sky, from the head and shoulders of
Hercules, upon his own, where it rightly belonged. And Hercules picked
up the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins,
and straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the
slightest heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed after
him to come back. Another forest sprang up around his feet, and grew
ancient there; and again might be seen oak-trees, of six or seven
centuries old, that had waxed thus aged betwixt his enormous toes.

And there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a
mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the thunder
rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of Giant
Atlas, bellowing after Hercules!


Tanglewood Fireside

_After the Story_


"Cousin Eustace," demanded Sweet Fern, who had been sitting at the
story-teller's feet, with his mouth wide open, "exactly how tall was
this giant?"

"O Sweet Fern, Sweet Fern!" cried the student, "do you think I was
there, to measure him with a yard-stick? Well, if you must know to a
hair's-breadth, I suppose he might be from three to fifteen miles
straight upward, and that he might have seated himself on Taconic, and
had Monument Mountain for a footstool."

"Dear me!" ejaculated the good little boy, with a contented sort of a
grunt, "that was a giant, sure enough! And how long was his little
finger?"

"As long as from Tanglewood to the lake," said Eustace.

"Sure enough, that was a giant!" repeated Sweet Fern, in an ecstasy at
the precision of these measurements. "And how broad, I wonder, were the
shoulders of Hercules?"

"That is what I have never been able to find out," answered the student.
"But I think they must have been a great deal broader than mine, or than
your father's, or than almost any shoulders which one sees nowadays."

"I wish," whispered Sweet Fern, with his mouth close to the student's
ear, "that you would tell me how big were some of the oak-trees that
grew between the giant's toes."

"They were bigger," said Eustace, "than the great chestnut-tree which
stands beyond Captain Smith's house."

"Eustace," remarked Mr. Pringle, after some deliberation, "I find it
impossible to express such an opinion of this story as will be likely to
gratify, in the smallest degree, your pride of authorship. Pray let me
advise you never more to meddle with a classical myth. Your imagination
is altogether Gothic, and will inevitably Gothicize everything that you
touch. The effect is like bedaubing a marble statue with paint. This
giant, now! How can you have ventured to thrust his huge,
disproportioned mass among the seemly outlines of Grecian fable, the
tendency of which is to reduce even the extravagant within limits, by
its pervading elegance?"

"I described the giant as he appeared to me," replied the student,
rather piqued. "And, sir, if you would only bring your mind into such a
relation with these fables as is necessary in order to remodel them, you
would see at once that an old Greek had no more exclusive right to them
than a modern Yankee has. They are the common property of the world, and
of all time. The ancient poets remodelled them at pleasure, and held
them plastic in their hands; and why should they not be plastic in my
hands as well?"

Mr. Pringle could not forbear a smile.

"And besides," continued Eustace, "the moment you put any warmth of
heart, any passion or affection, any human or divine morality, into a
classic mould, you make it quite another thing from what it was before.
My own opinion is, that the Greeks, by taking possession of these
legends (which were the immemorial birthright of mankind), and putting
them into shapes of indestructible beauty, indeed, but cold and
heartless, have done all subsequent ages an incalculable injury."

"Which you, doubtless, were born to remedy," said Mr. Pringle, laughing
outright. "Well, well, go on; but take my advice, and never put any of
your travesties on paper. And, as your next effort, what if you should
try your hand on some one of the legends of Apollo?"

"Ah, sir, you propose it as an impossibility," observed the student,
after a moment's meditation; "and, to be sure, at first thought, the
idea of a Gothic Apollo strikes one rather ludicrously. But I will turn
over your suggestion in my mind, and do not quite despair of success."

During the above discussion, the children (who understood not a word of
it) had grown very sleepy, and were now sent off to bed. Their drowsy
babble was heard, ascending the staircase, while a northwest-wind roared
loudly among the tree-tops of Tanglewood, and played an anthem around
the house. Eustace Bright went back to the study, and again endeavored
to hammer out some verses, but fell asleep between two of the rhymes.




THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER


The Hill-Side

_Introductory to "The Miraculous Pitcher"_

And when, and where, do you think we find the children next? No longer
in the winter-time, but in the merry month of May. No longer in
Tanglewood play-room, or at Tanglewood fireside, but more than half-way
up a monstrous hill, or a mountain, as perhaps it would be better
pleased to have us call it. They had set out from home with the mighty
purpose of climbing this high hill, even to the very tip-top of its bald
head. To be sure, it was not quite so high as Chimborazo, or Mont Blanc,
and was even a good deal lower than old Graylock. But, at any rate, it
was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks, or a million of mole-hills;
and, when measured by the short strides of little children, might be
reckoned a very respectable mountain.

And was Cousin Eustace with the party? Of that you may be certain; else
how could the book go on a step further? He was now in the middle of the
spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw him four or five
months ago, except that, if you gazed quite closely at his upper lip,
you could discern the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it. Setting
aside this mark of mature manhood, you might have considered Cousin
Eustace just as much a boy as when you first became acquainted with him.
He was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light of foot and of
spirits, and equally a favorite with the little folks, as he had always
been. This expedition up the mountain was entirely of his contrivance.
All the way up the steep ascent, he had encouraged the elder children
with his cheerful voice; and when Dandelion, Cowslip, and Squash-Blossom
grew weary, he had lugged them along, alternately, on his back. In this
manner, they had passed through the orchards and pastures on the lower
part of the hill, and had reached the wood, which extends thence towards
its bare summit.

The month of May, thus far, had been more amiable than it often is, and
this was as sweet and genial a day as the heart of man or child could
wish. In their progress up the hill, the small people had found enough
of violets, blue and white, and some that were as golden as if they had
the touch of Midas on them. That sociablest of flowers, the little
Houstonia, was very abundant. It is a flower that never lives alone, but
which loves its own kind, and is always fond of dwelling with a great
many friends and relatives around it. Sometimes you see a family of
them, covering a space no bigger than the palm of your hand; and
sometimes a large community, whitening a whole tract of pasture, and all
keeping one another in cheerful heart and life.

Within the verge of the wood there were columbines, looking more pale
than red, because they were so modest, and had thought proper to seclude
themselves too anxiously from the sun. There were wild geraniums, too,
and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry. The trailing arbutus
was not yet quite out of bloom; but it hid its precious flowers under
the last year's withered forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird
hides its little young ones. It knew, I suppose, how beautiful and
sweet-scented they were. So cunning was their concealment, that the
children sometimes smelt the delicate richness of their perfume before
they knew whence it proceeded.

Amid so much new life, it was strange and truly pitiful to behold, here
and there, in the fields and pastures, the hoary periwigs of dandelions
that had already gone to seed. They had done with summer before the
summer came. Within those small globes of winged seeds it was autumn
now!

Well, but we must not waste our valuable pages with any more talk about
the spring-time and wild flowers. There is something, we hope, more
interesting to be talked about. If you look at the group of children,
you may see them all gathered around Eustace Bright, who, sitting on the
stump of a tree, seems to be just beginning a story. The fact is, the
younger part of the troop have found out that it takes rather too many
of their short strides to measure the long ascent of the hill. Cousin
Eustace, therefore, has decided to leave Sweet Fern, Cowslip,
Squash-Blossom, and Dandelion, at this point, midway up, until the
return of the rest of the party from the summit. And because they
complain a little, and do not quite like to stay behind, he gives them
some apples out of his pocket, and proposes to tell them a very pretty
story. Hereupon they brighten up, and change their grieved looks into
the broadest kind of smiles.

As for the story, I was there to hear it, hidden behind a bush, and
shall tell it over to you in the pages that come next.


The Miraculous Pitcher

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat
at their cottage-door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had
already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet
hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden,
and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over
the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple.
But the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the
village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was
hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveller is seeking
hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food
and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"

"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a
little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of
bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the
head when they fling stones at strangers!"

"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his
white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some
terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless
they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Provid

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