GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYSPart 2 out of 8These motherly words gave Psyche heart, and she reverently took leave of the goddess and set out for the temple of Venus. Most humbly she offered up her prayer, but Venus could not look at her earthly beauty without anger. ``Vain girl,'' said she, ``perhaps you have come to make amends for the wound you dealt your husband; you shall do so. Such clever people can always find work!'' Then she led Psyche into a great chamber heaped high with mingled grain, beans, and lentils (the food of her doves), and bade her separate them all and have them ready in seemly fashion by night. Heracles would have been helpless before such a vexatious task; and poor Psyche, left alone in this desert of grain, had not courage to begin. But even as she sat there, a moving thread of black crawled across the floor from a crevice in the wall; and bending nearer, she saw that a great army of ants in columns had come to her aid. The zealous little creatures worked in swarms, with such industry over the work they like best, that, when Venus came at night, she found the task completed. ``Deceitful girl,'' she cried, shaking the roses out of her hair with impatience, ``this is my son's work, not yours. But he will soon forget you. Eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh your dull mind with sleep. To-morrow you will need more wit.'' Psyche wondered what new misfortune could be in store for her. But when morning came, Venus led her to the brink of a river, and, pointing to the wood across the water, said: ``Go now to yonder grove where the sheep with the golden fleece are wont to browse. Bring me a golden lock from every one of them, or you must go your ways and never come back again.'' This seemed not difficult, and Psyche obediently bade the goddess farewell, and stepped into the water, ready to wade across. But as Venus disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the nymphs of the river, looking up sweetly, blew bubbles to the surface and murmured: ``Nay, nay, have a care, Psyche. This flock has not the gentle ways of sheep. While the sun burns aloft, they are themselves as fierce as flame; but when the shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep, under the trees; and you may cross the river without fear and pick the golden fleece off the briers in the pasture.'' Thanking the water-creatures, Psyche sat down to rest near them, and when the time came, she crossed in safety and followed their counsel. By twilight she returned to Venus with her arms full of shining fleece. ``No mortal wit did this,'' said Venus angrily. ``But if you care to prove your readiness, go now, with this little box, down to Proserpina and ask her to enclose in it some of her beauty, for I have grown pale in caring for my wounded son.'' It needed not the last taunt to sadden Psyche. She knew that it was not for mortals to go into Hades and return alive; and feeling that Love had forsaken her, she was minded to accept her doom as soon as might be. But even as she hastened towards the descent, another friendly voice detained her. ``Stay, Psyche, I know your grief. Only give ear and you shall learn a safe way through all these trials.'' And the voice went on to tell her how one might avoid all the dangers of Hades and come out unscathed. (But such a secret could not pass from mouth to mouth, with the rest of the story.) ``And be sure,'' added the voice, ``when Proserpina has returned the box, not to open it, ever much you may long to do so.'' Psyche gave heed, and by this device, whatever it was, she found her way into Hades safely, and made her errand known to Proserpina, and was soon in the upper world again, wearied but hopeful. ``Surely Love has not forgotten me,'' she said. ``But humbled as I am and worn with toil, how shall I ever please him? Venus can never need all the beauty in this casket; and since I use it for Love's sake, it must be right to take some.'' So saying, she opened the box, heedless as Pandora! The spells and potions of Hades are not for mortal maids, and no sooner had she inhaled the strange aroma than she fell down like one dead, quite overcome. But it happened that Love himself was recovered from his wound, and he had secretly fled from his chamber to seek out and rescue Psyche. He found her lying by the wayside; he gathered into the casket what remained of the philter, and awoke his beloved. ``Take comfort,'' he said, smiling. ``Return to our mother and do her bidding till I come again.'' Away he flew; and while Psyche went cheerily homeward, he hastened up to Olympus, where all the gods sat feasting, and begged them to intercede for him with his angry mother. They heard his story and their hearts were touched. Zeus himself coaxed Venus with kind words till at last she relented, and remembered that anger hurt her beauty, and smiled once more. All the younger gods were for welcoming Psyche at once, and Hermes was sent to bring her hither. The maiden came, a shy newcomer among those bright creatures. She took the cup that Hebe held out to her, drank the divine ambrosia, and became immortal. Light came to her face like moonrise, two radiant wings sprang from her shoulders; and even as a butterfly bursts from its dull cocoon, so the human Psyche blossomed into immortality. Love took her by the hand, and they were never parted any more. WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY (FEBRUARY 22) THREE OLD TALES BY M. L. WEEMS (ADAPTED) I. THE CHERRY TREE When George was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet of which, like most little boys, he was extremely fond. He went about chopping everything that came his way. One day, as he wandered about the garden amusing himself by hacking his mother's pea- sticks, he found a beautiful, young English cherry tree, of which his father was most proud. He tried the edge of his hatchet on the trunk of the tree and barked it so that it died. Some time after this, his father discovered what had happened to his favorite tree. He came into the house in great anger, and demanded to know who the mischievous person was who had cut away the bark. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Just then George, with his little hatchet, came into the room. ``George,'' said his father, ``do you know who has killed my beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden? I would not have taken five guineas for it!'' This was a hard question to answer, and for a moment George was staggered by it, but quickly recovering himself he cried:-- ``I cannot tell a lie, father, you know I cannot tell a lie! I did cut it with my little hatchet.'' The anger died out of his father's face, and taking the boy tenderly in his arms, he said:-- ``My son, that you should not be afraid to tell the truth is more to me than a thousand trees! yes, though they were blossomed with silver and had leaves of the purest gold!'' II. THE APPLE ORCHARD One fine morning in the autumn Mr. Washington, taking little George by the hand, walked with him to the apple orchard, promising that he would show him a fine sight. On arriving at the orchard they saw a fine sight, indeed! The green grass under the trees was strewn with red-cheeked apples, and yet the trees were bending under the weight of fruit that hung thick among the leaves. ``Now, George,'' said his father, ``look, my son, see all this rich harvest of fruit! Do you remember when your good cousin brought you a fine, large apple last spring, how you refused to divide it with your brothers? And yet I told you then that, if you would be generous, God would give you plenty of apples this autumn.'' Poor George could not answer, but hanging down his head looked quite confused, while with his little, naked, bare feet he scratched in the soft ground. ``Now, look up, my son,'' continued his father, ``and see how the blessed God has richly provided us with these trees loaded with the finest fruit. See how abundant is the harvest. Some of the trees are bending beneath their burdens, while the ground is covered with mellow apples, more than you could eat, my son, in all your lifetime.'' George looked in silence on the orchard, he marked the busy, humming bees, and heard the gay notes of the birds fluttering from tree to tree. His eyes filled with tears and he answered softly:-- ``Truly, father, I never will be selfish any more.'' III. THE GARDEN-BED One day Mr. Washington went into the garden and dug a little bed of earth and prepared it for seed. He then took a stick and traced on the bed George's name in full. After this he strewed the tracing thickly with seeds, and smoothed all over nicely with his roller. This garden-bed he purposely prepared close to a gooseberry-walk. The bushes were hung with the ripe fruit, and he knew that George would visit them every morning. Not many days had passed away when one morning George came running into the house, breathless with excitement, and his eyes shining with happiness. ``Come here! father, come here!'' he cried. ``What's the matter, my son?'' asked his father. ``O come, father,'' answered George, ``and I'll show you such a sight as you have never seen in all your lifetime.'' Mr. Washington gave the boy his hand, which he seized with great eagerness. He led his father straight to the garden-bed, whereon in large letters, in lines of soft green, was written:-- GEORGE WASHINGTON YOUNG GEORGE AND THE COLT BY HORACE E. SCUDDER There is a story told of George Washington's boyhood,--unfortunately there are not many stories,--which is to the point. His father had taken a great deal of pride in his blooded horses, and his mother afterward took pains to keep the stock pure. She had several young horses that had not yet been broken, and one of them in particular, a sorrel, was extremely spirited. No one had been able to do anything with it, and it was pronounced thoroughly vicious as people are apt to pronounce horses which they have not learned to master. George was determined to ride this colt, and told his companions that if they would help him catch it, he would ride and tame it. Early in the morning they set out for the pasture, where the boys managed to surround the sorrel, and then to put a bit into its mouth. Washington sprang upon its back, the boys dropped the bridle, and away flew the angry animal. Its rider at once began to command. The horse resisted, backing about the field, rearing and plunging. The boys became thoroughly alarmed, but Washington kept his seat, never once losing his self-control or his mastery of the colt. The struggle was a sharp one; when suddenly, as if determined to rid itself of its rider, the creature leaped into the air with a tremendous bound. It was its last. The violence burst a blood-vessel, and the noble horse fell dead. Before the boys could sufficiently recover to consider how they should extricate themselves from the scrape, they were called to breakfast; and the mistress of the house, knowing that they had been in the fields, began to ask after her stock. ``Pray, young gentlemen,'' said she, ``have you seen my blooded colts in your rambles? I hope they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am told, is as large as his sire.'' The boys looked at one another, and no one liked to speak. Of course the mother repeated her question. ``The sorrel is dead, madam,'' said her son, ``I killed him.'' And then he told the whole story. They say that his mother flushed with anger, as her son often used to, and then, like him, controlled herself, and presently said, quietly:-- ``It is well; but while I regret the loss of my favorite, I rejoice in my son who always speaks the truth.'' WASHINGTON THE ATHLETE BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL AND FRANCIS E. BALL Many stories are told of the mighty power of Washington's right arm. It is said that he once threw a stone from the bed of the stream to the top of the Natural Bridge, in Virginia. Again, we are told that once upon a time he rounded a piece of slate to the size of a silver dollar, and threw it across the Rappahannock at Fredericksburg, the slate falling at least thirty feet on the other side. Many strong men have since tried the same feat, but have never cleared the water. Peale, who was called the soldier-artist, was once visiting Washington at Mount Vernon. One day, he tells us, some athletic young men were pitching the iron bar in the presence of their host. Suddenly, without taking off his coat, Washington grasped the bar and hurled it, with little effort, much farther than any of them had done. ``We were, indeed, amazed,'' said one of the young men, ``as we stood round, all stripped to the buff, and having thought ourselves very clever fellows, while the Colonel, on retiring, pleasantly said:-- `` `When you beat my pitch, young gentlemen, I'll try again.' '' At another time, Washington witnessed a wrestling-match. The champion of the day challenged him, in sport, to wrestle. Washington did not stop to take off his coat, but grasped the ``strong man of Virginia.'' It was all over in a moment, for, said the wrestler, ``In Washington's lionlike grasp I became powerless, and was hurled to the ground with a force that seemed to jar the very marrow in my bones.'' In the days of the Revolution, some of the riflemen and the backwoodsmen were men of gigantic strength, but it was generally believed by good judges that their commander-in-chief was the strongest man in the army. WASHINGTON'S MODESTY BY HENRY CABOT LODGE (ADAPTED) Washington as soon as Fort Duquesne had fallen hurried home, resigned his commission, and was married. The sunshine and glitter of the wedding day must have appeared to Washington deeply appropriate, for he certainly seemed to have all that heart of man could desire. Just twenty- seven, in the first flush of young manhood, keen of sense and yet wise in experience, life must have looked very fair and smiling. He had left the army with a well-earned fame, and had come home to take the wife of his choice, and enjoy the good will and respect of all men. While away on his last campaign he had been elected a member of the House of Burgesses, and when he took his seat, on removing to Williamsburg, three months after his marriage, Mr. Robinson, the Speaker, thanked him publicly in eloquent words for his services to the country. Washington rose to reply, but he was so utterly unable to talk about himself that he stood before the House stammering and blushing until the Speaker said:-- ``Sit down, Mr. Washington, your modesty equals your valor, and that surpasses the power of any language I possess.'' WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN BY HENRY CABOT LODGE During the assault Washington stood in an embrasure of the grand battery, watching the advance of the men. He was always given to exposing himself recklessly when there was fighting to be done, but not when he was only an observer. This night, however, he was much exposed to the enemy's fire. One of his aides, anxious and disturbed for his safety, told him that the place was perilous. ``If you think so,'' was the quiet answer, ``you are at liberty to step back.'' The moment was too exciting, too fraught with meaning, to think of peril. The old fighting spirit of Braddock's field was unchained for the last time. He would have liked to head the American assault, sword in hand, and as he could not do that, he stood as near his troops as he could, utterly regardless of the bullets whistling in the air about him. Who can wonder at his intense excitement at that moment? Others saw a brilliant storming of two out- works, but to Washington the whole Revolution and all the labor and thought and conflict of six years were culminating in the smoke and din on those redoubts, while out of the dust and heat of the sharp, quick fight success was coming. He had waited long, and worked hard, and his whole soul went out as he watched the troops cross the abatis and scale the works. He could have no thought of danger then, and when all was over, he turned to Knox and said:-- ``The work is done, and well done. Bring me my horse.'' RESURRECTION DAY (EASTER) (MARCH OR APRIL) A LESSON OF FAITH BY MRS. ALFRED GATTY (ADAPTED) ``Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor children,'' said a butterfly to a quiet caterpillar, who was strolling along a cabbage-leaf in her odd, lumbering fashion. ``See these little eggs,'' continued the butterfly; ``I do not know how long it will be before they come to life, and I feel very sick. If I should die, who will take care of my baby butterflies when I am gone? Will you, kind, mild, green caterpillar? They cannot, of course, live on your rough food. You must give them early dew, and honey from the flowers, and you must let them fly about only a little way at first. Dear me! it is a sad pity that you cannot fly yourself. Dear, dear! I cannot think what made me come and lay my eggs on a cabbage-leaf! What a place for young butterflies to be bore upon! Here, take this gold-dust from my wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am! Caterpillar! you will remember about the food--'' And with these words the butterfiy drooped her wings and died. The green caterpillar, who had not had the opportunity of even saying ``yes'' or ``no'' to the request, was left standing alone by the side of the butterfly's eggs. ``A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor lady!'' exclaimed she, ``and a pretty business I have in hand. Why did she ever ask a poor crawling creature like me to bring up her dainty little ones! Much they'll mind me, truly, when they feel the gay wings on their backs, and can fly away.'' However, the poor butterfly was dead, and there lay the eggs on the cabbage-leaf, and the green caterpillar had a kind heart, so she resolved to do her best. ``But two heads are better than one,'' said she; ``I will consult some wise animal on the matter.'' Then she thought and thought till at last she thought of the lark, and she fancied that because he went up so high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be very clever and know a great deal. Now in the neighboring cornfield there lived a lark, and the caterpillar sent a message to him, begging him to come and talk to her. When he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked him how she was to feed and rear the little butterfly creatures. ``Perhaps you will be able to inquire and learn something about it the next time you go up high,'' said the caterpillar timidly. ``Perhaps I can,'' answered the lark; and then he went singing upwards into the bright, blue sky, till the green caterpillar could not hear a sound, nor could she see him any more. So she began to walk round the butterfly's eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along. ``What a time the lark has been gone!'' she cried at last. ``I wonder where he is just now. He must have flown higher than usual this time. How I should like to know where he goes, and what he hears in that curious blue sky! He always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets any secret out.'' And the green caterpillar took another turn round the butterfly's eggs. At last the lark's voice began to be heard again. The caterpillar almost jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend descend with hushed note to the cabbage bed. ``News, news, glorious news, friend caterpillar!'' sang the lark, ``but the worst of it is, you won't believe me!'' ``I believe anything I am told,'' said the caterpillar hastily. ``Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what those little creatures are to eat''--and the lark nodded his head toward the eggs. ``What do you think it is to be? Guess!'' ``Dew and honey out of the flowers, I am afraid!'' sighed the caterpillar. ``No such thing, my good friend,'' cried the lark exultantly; ``you are to feed them with cabbage-leaves!'' ``Never!'' said the caterpillar indignantly. ``It was their mother's last request that I should feed them on dew and honey.'' ``Their mother knew nothing about the matter,'' answered the lark; ``but why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have neither faith nor trust.'' ``Oh, I believe everything I am told,'' said the caterpillar. ``Nay, but you do not,'' replied the lark. ``Why, caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to be?'' ``Butterflies, to be sure,'' said the caterpillar. ``CATERPILLARS!'' sang the lark; ``and you'll find it out in time.'' And the lark flew away. ``I thought the lark was wise and kind,'' said the mild, green caterpillar to herself, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, ``but I find that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up TOO high this time. How I wonder what he sees, and what he does up yonder!'' ``I would tell you if you would believe me,'' sang the lark, descending once more. ``I believe everything I am told,'' answered the caterpillar. ``Then I'll tell you something else,'' cried the lark. ``YOU WILL ONE DAY BE A BUTTERFLY YOURSELF!'' ``Wretched bird,'' exclaimed the caterpillar, ``you are making fun of me. You are now cruel as well as foolish! Go away! I will ask your advice no more.'' ``I told you you would not believe me,'' cried the lark. ``I believe everything I am told,'' persisted the caterpillar,--``everything that it is REASONABLE to believe. But to tell me that butterflies' eggs are caterpillars, and that caterpillars leave off crawling and get wings and become butterflies!-- Lark! you do not believe such nonsense yourself! You know it is impossible!'' ``I know no such thing,'' said the lark. ``When I hover over the cornfields, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many wonderful things that I know there must be more. O caterpillar! it is because you CRAWL, and never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you call anything IMPOSSIBLE.'' ``Nonsense,'' shouted the caterpillar, ``I know what's possible and what's impossible. Look at my long, green body, and many legs, and then talk to me about having wings! Fool!'' ``More foolish you!'' cried the indignant lark, ``to attempt to reason about what you cannot understand. Do you not hear how my song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, caterpillar, what comes from thence, receive as I do,--on trust.'' ``What do you mean by that?'' asked the caterpillar. ``ON FAITH,'' answered the lark. ``How am I to learn faith?'' asked the caterpillar. At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round,--eight or ten little green caterpillars were moving about, and had already made a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the butterfly's eggs! Shame and amazement filled the green caterpillar's heart, but joy soon followed. For as the first wonder was possible, the second might be so too. ``Teach me your lesson, lark,'' she cried. And the lark sang to her of the wonders of the earth below and of the heaven above. And the caterpillar talked all the rest of her life of the time when she should become a butterfly. But no one believed her. She nevertheless had learned the lark's lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis, she said:-- ``I shall be a butterfly some day!'' But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said, ``Poor thing!'' And when she was a butterfly, and was going to die she said:-- ``I have known many wonders,--I HAVE FAITH, --I can trust even now for the wonder that shall come next.'' A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR BY CHARLES DICKENS There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child, too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of God who made the lovely world. They used to say to one another, sometimes: ``Supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry?'' They believed they would be sorry. ``For,''said they, ``the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water; and the smallest, bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more.'' There was one clear, shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw it first cried out: ``I see the star!'' And often they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they were turning round to sleep, they used to say: ``God bless the star!'' But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star turned round and said to the patient, pale face on the bed: ``I see the star!'' and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say: ``God bless my brother and the star!'' And so the time came all too soon, when the child looked out alone, and when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little grave among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears. Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star; and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face, that once had lain upon the bed, was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither:-- ``Is my brother come?'' And he said: ``No.'' She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried: ``O sister, I am here! Take me!'' And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home he was to go to when his time should come; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star, too, because of his sister's angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he was so little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader:-- ``Is my brother come?'' And he said: ``Not that one, but another.'' As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried: ``O sister, I am here! Take me!'' And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him and said:-- ``Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son.'' Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader:-- ``Is my brother come?'' And he said: ``Thy mother!'' A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was reunited to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried: ``O mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!'' And they answered him: ``Not yet.'' And the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader:-- ``Is my brother come?'' And he said: ``Nay, but his maiden daughter.'' And the man, who had been the child, saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said: ``My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, God be praised!'' And the star was shining. Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago:-- ``I see the star!'' They whispered one to another: ``He is dying.'' And he said: ``I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me!'' And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (ADAPTED) Once there reigned a queen, in whose garden were found the most glorious flowers at all seasons and from all the lands of the world. But more than all others she loved the roses, and she had many kinds of this flower, from the wild dog-rose with its apple-scented green leaves to the most splendid, large, crimson roses. They grew against the garden walls, wound themselves around the pillars and wind-frames, and crept through the windows into the rooms, and all along the ceilings in the halls. And the roses were of many colors, and of every fragrance and form. But care and sorrow dwelt in those halls. The queen lay upon a sick-bed, and the doctors said she must die. ``There is still one thing that can save her,'' said the wise man. ``Bring her the loveliest rose in the world, the rose that is the symbol of the purest, the brightest love. If that is held before her eyes ere they close, she will not die.'' Then old and young came from every side with roses, the loveliest that bloomed in each garden, but they were not of the right sort. The flower was to be plucked from the Garden of Love. But what rose in all that garden expressed the highest and purest love? And the poets sang of the loveliest rose in the world,--of the love of maid and youth, and of the love of dying heroes. ``But they have not named the right flower,'' said the wise man. ``They have not pointed out the place where it blooms in its splendor. It is not the rose that springs from the hearts of youthful lovers, though this rose will ever be fragrant in song. It is not the bloom that sprouts from the blood flowing from the breast of the hero who dies for his country, though few deaths are sweeter than his, and no rose is redder than the blood that flows then. Nor is it the wondrous flower to which man devotes many a sleepless night and much of his fresh life,--the magic flower of science.'' ``But I know where it blooms,'' said a happy mother, who came with her pretty child to the bedside of the dying queen. ``I know where the loveliest rose of love may be found. It springs in the blooming cheeks of my sweet child, when, waking from sleep, it opens its eyes and smiles tenderly at me.'' ``Lovely is this rose, but there is a lovelier still,'' said the wise man. ``I have seen the loveliest, purest rose that blooms,'' said a woman. ``I saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown. And in the long, dreary night she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept, kissed it, and prayed for her child.'' ``Holy and wonderful is the white rose of a mother's grief,'' answered the wise man, ``but it is not the one we seek.'' ``The loveliest rose in the world I saw at the altar of the Lord,'' said the good Bishop, ``the young maidens went to the Lord's Table. Roses were blushing and pale roses shining on their fresh cheeks. A young girl stood there. She looked with all the love and purity of her spirit up to heaven. That was the expression of the highest and purest love.'' ``May she be blessed,'' said the wise man, ``but not one of you has yet named the loveliest rose in the world.'' Then there came into the room a child, the queen's little son. ``Mother,'' cried the boy, ``only hear what I have read.'' And the child sat by the bedside and read from the Book of Him who suffered death upon the cross to save men, and even those who were not yet born. ``Greater love there is not.'' And a rosy glow spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes gleamed, for she saw that from the leaves of the Book there bloomed the loveliest rose, that sprang from the blood of Christ shed on the cross. ``I see it!'' she said, ``he who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth, shall never die.'' MAY DAY (MAY 1) THE SNOWDROP [1] BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (ADAPTED) [1] From For the Children's Hour, by Carolyn Sherwin Bailey and Clara M. Lewis. Copyright by the Milton Bradley Company. The snow lay deep, for it was winter-time. The winter winds blew cold, but there was one house where all was snug and warm. And in the house lay a little flower; in its bulb it lay, under the earth and the snow. One day the rain fell and it trickled through the ice and snow down into the ground. And presently a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced down through the earth, and tapped on the bulb. ``Come in,'' said the flower. ``I can't do that,'' said the sunbeam; ``I'm not strong enough to lift the latch. I shall be stronger when springtime comes.'' ``When will it be spring?'' asked the flower of every little sunbeam that rapped on its door. But for a long time it was winter. The ground was still covered with snow, and every night there was ice in the water. The flower grew quite tired of waiting. ``How long it is!'' it said. ``I feel quite cramped. I must stretch myself and rise up a little. I must lift the latch, and look out, and say `good-morning' to the spring.'' So the flower pushed and pushed. The walls were softened by the rain and warmed by the little sunbeams, so the flower shot up from under the snow, with a pale green bud on its stalk and some long narrow leaves on either side. It was biting cold. ``You are a little too early,'' said the wind and the weather; but every sunbeam sang: ``Welcome,'' and the flower raised its head from the snow and unfolded itself--pure and white, and decked with green stripes. It was weather to freeze it to pieces,--such a delicate little flower,--but it was stronger than any one knew. It stood in its white dress in the white snow, bowing its head when the snow- flakes fell, and raising it again to smile at the sunbeams, and every day it grew sweeter. ``Oh!'' shouted the children, as they ran into the garden, ``see the snowdrop! There it stands so pretty, so beautiful,--the first, the only one!'' THE THREE LITTLE BUTTERFLY BROTHERS (FROM THE GERMAN)[2] [2] From Deutsches Drittes Lesebuch, by W. H. Weick and C. Grebner. Copyright, 1886, by Van Antwerp, Bragg & Co. American Book Company, publishers. There were once three little butterfly brothers, one white, one red, and one yellow. They played in the sunshine, and danced among the flowers in the garden, and they never grew tired because they were so happy. One day there came a heavy rain, and it wet their wings. They flew away home, but when they got there they found the door locked and the key gone. So they had to stay out of doors in the rain, and they grew wetter and wetter. By and by they flew to the red and yellow striped tulip, and said: ``Friend Tulip, will you open your flower-cup and let us in till the storm is over?'' The tulip answered: ``The red and yellow butterflies may enter, because they are like me, but the white one may not come in.'' But the red and yellow butterflies said: ``If our white brother may not find shelter in your flowercup, why, then, we'll stay outside in the rain with him.'' It rained harder and harder, and the poor little butterflies grew wetter and wetter, so they flew to the white lily and said: ``Good Lily, will you open your bud a little so we may creep in out of the rain?'' The lily answered: ``The white butterfly may come in, because he is like me, but the red and yellow ones must stay outside in the storm.'' Then the little white butterfly said: ``If you won't receive my red and yellow brothers, why, then, I'll stay out in the rain with them. We would rather be wet than be parted.'' So the three little butterfiies flew away. But the sun, who was behind a cloud, heard it all, and he knew what good little brothers the butterflies were, and how they had held together in spite of the wet. So he pushed his face through the clouds, and chased away the rain, and shone brightly on the garden. He dried the wings of the three little butterflies, and warmed their bodies. They ceased to sorrow, and danced among the flowers till evening, then they flew away home, and found the door wide open. THE WATER-DROP BY FRIEDRICH WILHELM CAROVE' (ADAPTED FROM THE TRANSLATION BY SARAH AUSTIN) There was once a child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there was nothing but a little bed and a looking-glass; but as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through the casement and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him merrily with their morning songs, he arose and went out into the green meadow. And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet, and butter of the buttercup. He shook dewdrops from the cowslip into the cup of the harebell, spread out a large lime-leaf, set his breakfast upon it, and feasted daintily. And he invited a humming-bee and a gay butterfly to partake of his feast, but his favorite guest was a blue dragon-fly. The bee murmured a good deal about his riches, and the butterfly told his adventures. Such talk delighted the child, and his breakfast was the sweeter to him, and the sunshine on leaf and flower seemed more bright and cheering. But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the butterfly had fluttered away to his play-fellows, the dragon-fly still remained, poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body, more brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in the sunbeam. Her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because they could not fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and rain. The dragon-fly sipped a little of the child's clear dewdrops and blue violet honey, and then whispered her winged words. Such stories as the dragon-fly did tell! And as the child sat motionless with his blue eyes shut, and his head rested on his hands, she thought he had fallen asleep; so she poised her double wings and flew into the rustling wood. But the child had only sunk into a dream of delight and was wishing he were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear more and more, and forever. But at last as all was still, he opened his eyes and looked around for his dear guest, but she was flown far away. He could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose and went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels into the river, just as if the great massy rock out of which it sprang were close behind it, and could only be escaped by a breakneck leap. Then the child began to talk to the little waves and asked them whence they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but danced away one over another; till at last, that the sweet child might not be grieved, a water-drop stopped behind a piece of rock. ``A long time ago,'' said the water-drop, ``I lived with my countless sisters in the great Ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts of pastimes. Sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and peeped at the stars. Then we sank plump down deep below, and looked how the coral builders work till they are tired, that they may reach the light of day at last. ``But I was conceited, and thought myself much better than my sisters. And so, one day, when the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast to one of his hot beams and thought how I should reach the stars and become one of them. ``But I had not ascended far when the sunbeam shook me off, and, in spite of all I could say or do, let me fall into a dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through the cloud, and now I thought I must surely die; but the cloud laid itself down softly upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped. ``Now I thought I should remain hidden, when, all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell from one stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain. At last it was pitch dark and I could neither see nor hear anything. ``Then I found, indeed, that `pride goeth before a fall,' for, though I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the cloud, my punishment was to remain for some time in the heart of the mountain. After undergoing many purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and minerals, I was at length permitted to come up once more into the free and cheerful air, and to gush from this rock and journey with this happy stream. Now will I run back to my sisters in the Ocean, and there wait patiently till I am called to something better.'' So said the water-drop to the child, but scarcely had she finished her story, when the root of a For-Get-Me-Not caught the drop and sucked her in, that she might become a floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of earth. THE SPRING BEAUTY AN OJIBBEWAY LEGEND BY HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT (ADAPTED) An old man was sitting in his lodge, by the side of a frozen stream. It was the end of winter, the air was not so cold, and his fire was nearly out. He was old and alone. His locks were white with age, and he trembled in every joint. Day after day passed, and he heard nothing but the sound of the storm sweeping before it the new-fallen snow. One day while his fire was dying, a handsome young man approached and entered the lodge. His cheeks were red, his eyes sparkled. He walked with a quick, light step. His forehead was bound with a wreath of sweet-grass, and he carried a bunch of fragrant flowers in his hand. ``Ah, my son,'' said the old man, ``I am happy to see you. Come in! Tell me your adventures, and what strange lands you have seen. I will tell you of my wonderful deeds, and what I can perform. You shall do the same, and we will amuse each other.'' The old man then drew from a bag a curiously wrought pipe. He filled it with mild tobacco, and handed it to his guest. They each smoked from the pipe and then began their stories. ``I am Peboan, the Spirit of Winter,'' said the old man. ``I blow my breath, and the streams stand still. The water becomes stiff and hard as clear stone.'' ``I am Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring,'' answered the youth. ``I breathe, and flowers spring up in the meadows and woods.'' ``I shake my locks,'' said the old man, ``and snow covers the land. The leaves fall from the trees, and my breath blows them away. The birds fly to a distant land, and the animals hide themselves from the cold.'' ``I shake my ringlets,'' said the young man, ``and warm showers of soft rain fall upon the earth. The flowers lift their heads from the ground, the grass grows thick and green. My voice recalls the birds, and they come flying joyfully from the Southland. The warmth of my breath unbinds the streams, and they sing the songs of summer. Music fills the groves where- ever I walk, and all nature rejoices.'' And while they were talking thus a wonderful change took place. The sun began to rise. A gentle warmth stole over the place. Peboan, the Spirit of Winter, became silent. His head drooped, and the snow outside the lodge melted away. Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring, grew more radiant, and rose joyfully to his feet. The robin and the bluebird began to sing on the top of the lodge. The stream began to murmur at the door, and the fragrance of opening flowers came softly on the breeze. The lodge faded away, and Peboan sank down and dissolved into tiny streams of water, that vanished under the brown leaves of the forest. Thus the Spirit of Winter departed, and where he had melted away, there the Indian children gathered the first blossoms, fragrant and delicately pink,--the modest Spring Beauty. THE FAIRY TULIPS ENGLISH FOLK-TALE Once upon a time there was a good old woman who lived in a little house. She had in her garden a bed of beautiful striped tulips. One night she was wakened by the sounds of sweet singing and of babies laughing. She looked out at the window. The sounds seemed to come from the tulip bed, but she could see nothing. The next morning she walked among her flowers, but there were no signs of any one having been there the night before. On the following night she was again wakened by sweet singing and babies laughing. She rose and stole softly through her garden. The moon was shining brightly on the tulip bed, and the flowers were swaying to and fro. The old woman looked closely and she saw, standing by each tulip, a little Fairy mother who was crooning and rocking the flower like a cradle, while in each tulip-cup lay a little Fairy baby laughing and playing. The good old woman stole quietly back to her house, and from that time on she never picked a tulip, nor did she allow her neighbors to touch the flowers. The tulips grew daily brighter in color and larger in size, and they gave out a delicious perfume like that of roses. They began, too, to bloom all the year round. And every night the little Fairy mothers caressed their babies and rocked them to sleep in the flower-cups. The day came when the good old woman died, and the tulip-bed was torn up by folks who did not know about the Fairies, and parsley was planted there instead of the flowers. But the parsley withered, and so did all the other plants in the garden, and from that time nothing would grow there. But the good old woman's grave grew beautiful, for the Fairies sang above it, and kept it green; while on the grave and all around it there sprang up tulips, daffodils, and violets, and other lovely flowers of spring. THE STREAM THAT RAN AWAY BY MARY AUSTIN (ADAPTED) In a short and shallow canyon running eastward toward the sun, one may find a clear, brown stream called the Creek of Pinon Pines; that is not because it is unusual to find pinon trees in that country, but because there are so few of them in the canyon of the stream. There are all sorts higher up on the slopes,--long-leaved yellow pines, thimble cones, tamarack, silver fir, and Douglas spruce; but in the canyon there is only a group of the low-headed, gray nut pines which the earliest inhabitants of that country called pinons. The Canyon of Pinon Pines has a pleasant outlook and lies open to the sun. At the upper end there is no more room by the stream border than will serve for a cattle trail; willows grow in it, choking the path of the water; there are brown birches here and ropes of white clematis tangled over thickets of brier rose. Low down, the ravine broadens out to inclose a meadow the width of a lark's flight, blossomy and wet and good. Here the stream ran once in a maze of soddy banks and watered all the ground, and afterward ran out at the canyon's mouth across the mesa in a wash of bone-white boulders as far as it could. That was not very far, for it was a slender stream. It had its source on the high crests and hollows of the near-by mountain, in the snow banks that melted and seeped downward through the rocks. But the stream did not know any more of that than you know of what happened to you before you were born, and could give no account of itself except that it crept out from under a great heap of rubble far up in the Canyon of the Pinon Pines. And because it had no pools in it deep enough for trout, and no trees on its borders but gray nut pines; because, try as it might, it could never get across the mesa to the town, the stream had fully made up its mind to run away. ``Pray, what good will that do you?'' said the pines. ``If you get to the town, they will turn you into an irrigating ditch, and set you to watering crops.'' ``As to that,'' said the stream, ``if I once get started I will not stop at the town.'' Then it would fret between its banks until the spangled frills of the mimulus were all tattered with its spray. Often at the end of the summer it was worn quite thin and small with running, and not able to do more than reach the meadow. ``But some day,'' it whispered to the stones, ``I shall run quite away.'' If the stream had been inclined for it, there was no lack of good company on its own borders. Birds nested in the willows, rabbits came to drink; one summer a bobcat made its lair up the bank opposite the brown birches, and often the deer fed in the meadow. In the spring of one year two old men came up into the Canyon of Pinon Pines. They had been miners and partners together for many years. They had grown rich and grown poor, and had seen many hard places and strange times. It was a day when the creek ran clear and the south wind smelled of the earth. Wild bees began to whine among the willows, and the meadow bloomed over with poppy-breasted larks. Then said one of the old men: ``Here is good meadow and water enough; let us build a house and grow trees. We are too old to dig in the mines.'' ``Let us set about it,'' said the other; for that is the way with two who have been a long time together,--what one thinks of, the other is for doing. So they brought their possessions, and they built a house by the water border and planted trees. One of the men was all for an orchard but the other preferred vegetables. So they did each what he liked, and were never so happy as when walking in the garden in the cool of the day, touching the growing things as they walked, and praising each other's work. They were very happy for three years. By this time the stream had become so interested it had almost forgotten about running away. But every year it noted that a larger bit of the meadow was turned under and planted, and more and more the men made dams and ditches by which to turn the water into their gardens. ``In fact,'' said the stream, ``I am being made into an irrigating ditch before I have had my fling in the world. I really must make a start.'' That very winter, by the help of a great storm, the stream went roaring down the meadow, over the mesa, and so clean away, with only a track of muddy sand to show the way it had gone. All that winter the two men brought water for drinking from a spring, and looked for the stream to come back. In the spring they hoped still, for that was the season they looked for the orchard to bear. But no fruit grew on the trees, and the seeds they planted shriveled in the earth. So by the end of summer, when they understood that the water would not come back at all, they went sadly away. Now the Creek of Pinon Pines did not have a happy time. It went out in the world on the wings of the storm, and was very much tossed about and mixed up with other waters, lost and bewildered. Everywhere it saw water at work, turning mills, watering fields, carrying trade, falling as hail, rain, and snow; and at the last, after many journeys it found itself creeping out from under the rocks of the same old mountain, in the Canyon of Pinon Pines. ``After all, home is best,'' said the little stream to itself, and ran about in its choked channels looking for old friends. The willows were there, but grown shabby and dying at the top; the birches were quite dead, and there was only rubbish where the white clematis had been. Even the rabbits had gone away. The little stream ran whimpering in the meadow, fumbling at the ruined ditches to comfort the fruit trees which were not quite dead. It was very dull in those days living in the Canyon of Pinon Pines. ``But it is really my own fault,'' said the stream. So it went on repairing the borders as best it could. About the time the white clematis had come back to hide the ruin of the brown birches, a young man came and camped with his wife and child in the meadow. They were looking for a place to make a home. ``What a charming place!'' said the young wife; ``just the right distance from town, and a stream all to ourselves. And look, there are fruit trees already planted. Do let us decide to stay!'' Then she took off the child's shoes and stockings to let it play in the stream. The water curled all about the bare feet and gurgled delightedly. ``Ah, do stay,'' begged the happy water. ``I can be such a help to you, for I know how a garden should be irrigated in the best manner.'' The child laughed, and stamped the water up to his bare knees. The young wife watched anxiously while her husband walked up and down the stream border and examined the fruit trees. ``It is a delightful place,'' he said, ``and the soil is rich, but I am afraid the water cannot be depended upon. There are signs of a great drought within the last two or three years. Look, there is a clump of birches in the very path of the stream, but all dead; and the largest limbs of the fruit trees have died. In this country one must be able to make sure of the water-supply. I suppose the people who planted them must have abandoned the place when the stream went dry. We must go on farther.'' So they took their goods and the child and went on farther. ``Ah, well,'' said the stream, ``that is what is to be expected when has a reputation for neglecting one's duty. But I wish they had stayed. That baby and I understood each other.'' It had made up its mind not to run away again, though it could not be expected to be quite cheerful after all that had happened. If you go to the Canyon of Pinon Pines you will notice that the stream, where it goes brokenly about the meadow, has a mournful sound. THE ELVES AN IROQUOIS LEGEND BY HARRIET MAXWELL CONVERSE (ADAPTED) The little Elves of Darkness, so says the old Iroquois grandmother, were wise and mysterious. They dwelt under the earth, where were deep forests and broad plains. There they kept captive all the evil things that wished to injure human beings,--the venomous reptiles, the wicked spiders, and the fearful monsters. Sometimes one of these evil creatures escaped and rushed upward to the bright, pure air, and spread its poisonous breath over the living things of the upper-world. But such happenings were rare, for the Elves of Darkness were faithful and strong, and did not willingly allow the wicked beasts and reptiles to harm human beings and the growing things. When the night was lighted by the moon's soft rays, and the woods of the upper-world were sweet with the odor of the spring-flowers, then the Elves of Darkness left the under-world, and creeping from their holes, held a festival in the woods. And under many a tree, where the blades of grass had refused to grow, the Little People danced until rings of green sprang up beneath their feet. And to the festival came the Elves of Light,--among whom were Tree-Elves, Flower-Elves, and Fruit-Elves. They too danced and made merry. But when the moonlight faded away, and day began to break, then the Elves of Darkness scampered back to their holes, and returned once more to the under-world; while the Elves of Light began their daily tasks. For in the springtime these Little People of the Light hid in sheltered places. They listened to the complaints of the seeds that lay covered in the ground, and they whispered to the earth until the seeds burst their pods and sent their shoots upward to the light. Then the little Elves wandered over the fields and through the woods, bidding all growing things to look upon the sun. The Tree-Elves tended the trees, unfolding their leaves, and feeding their roots with sap from the earth. The Flower-Elves unwrapped the baby buds, and tinted the petals of the opening flowers, and played with the bees and the butterflies. But the busiest of all were the Fruit-Elves. Their greatest care in the spring was the strawberry plant. When the ground softened from the frost, the Fruit-Elves loosened the earth around each strawberry root, that its shoots might push through to the light. They shaped the plant's leaves, and turned its blossoms toward the warm rays of the sun. They trained its runners, and assisted the timid fruit to form. They painted the luscious berry, and bade it ripen. And when the first strawberries blushed on the vines, these guardian Elves protected them from the evil insects that had escaped from the world of darkness underground. And the old Iroquois grandmother tells, how once, when the fruit first came to earth, the Evil Spirit, Hahgwehdaetgah, stole the strawberry plant, and carried it to his gloomy cave, where he hid it away. And there it lay until a tiny sunbeam pierced the damp mould, and finding the little vine carried it back to its sunny fields. And ever since then the strawberry plant has lived and thrived in the fields and woods. But the Fruit-Elves, fearing lest the Evil One should one day steal the vine again, watch day and night over their favorite. And when the strawberries ripen they give the juicy, fragrant fruit to the Iroquois children as they gather the spring flowers in the woods. THE CANYON FLOWERS BY RALPH CONNOR (ADAPTED) At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where were only grasses, asked the Prairie: ``Where are your flowers?'' And the Prairie said: ``Master, I have no seeds.'' Then he spoke to the birds, and they carried seeds of every kind of flower and strewed them far and wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with crocuses and roses and buffalo beans and the yellow crowfoot and the wild sunflowers and the red lilies, all the summer long. Then the Master came and was well pleased; but he missed the flowers he loved best of all, and he said to the Prairie: ``Where are the clematis and the columbine, the sweet violets and wind-flowers, and all the ferns and flowering shrubs?'' And again the Prairie answered: ``Master, I have no seeds.'' And again he spoke to the birds and again they carried all the seeds and strewed them far and wide. But when next the Master came, he could not find the flowers he loved best of all, and he said: ``Where are those, my sweetest flowers?'' And the Prairie cried sorrowfully: ``O Master, I cannot keep the flowers, for the winds sweep fiercely, and the sun beats upon my breast, and they wither up and fly away.'' Then the Master spoke to the Lightning, and with one swift blow the Lightning cleft the Prairie to the heart. And the Prairie rocked and groaned in agony, and for many a day moaned bitterly over its black, jagged, gaping wound. But a little river poured its waters through the cleft, and carried down deep, black mould, and once more the birds carried seeds and strewed them in the canyon. And after a long time the rough rocks were decked out with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the nooks were hung with clematis and columbine, and great elms lifted their huge tops high up into the sunlight, and down about their feet clustered the low cedars and balsams, and everywhere the violets and wind-flowers and maiden-hair grew and bloomed till the canyon became the Master's place for rest and peace and joy. CLYTIE, THE HELIOTROPE BY OVID (ADAPTED) There was once a Nymph named Clytie, who gazed ever at Apollo as he drove his sun-chariot through the heavens. She watched him as he rose in the east attended by the rosy-fingered Dawn and the dancing Hours. She gazed as he ascended the heavens, urging his steeds still higher in the fierce heat of the noonday. She looked with wonder as at evening he guided his steeds downward to their many-colored pastures under the western sky, where they fed all night on ambrosia. Apollo saw not Clytie. He had no thought for her, but he shed his brightest beams upon her sister the white Nymph Leucothoe. And when Clytie perceived this she was filled with envy and grief. Night and day she sat on the bare ground weeping. For nine days and nine nights she never raised herself from the earth, nor did she take food or drink; but ever she turned her weeping eyes toward the sun-god as he moved through the sky. And her limbs became rooted to the ground. Green leaves enfolded her body. Her beautiful face was concealed by tiny flowers, violet-colored and sweet with perfume. Thus was she changed into a flower and her roots held her fast to the ground; but ever she turned her blossom-covered face toward the sun, following with eager gaze his daily flight. In vain were her sorrow and tears, for Apollo regarded her not. And so through the ages has the Nymph turned her dew-washed face toward the heavens, and men no longer call her Clytie, but the sun-flower, heliotrope. HYACINTHUS BY OVID (ADAPTED) Once when the golden-beamed Apollo roamed the earth, he made a companion of Hyacinthus, the son of King Amyclas of Lacedaemon; and him he loved with an exceeding great love, for the lad was beautiful beyond compare. The sun-god threw aside his lyre, and became the daily comrade of Hyacinthus. Often they played games, or climbed the rugged mountain ridges. Together they followed the chase or fished in the quiet and shadowy pools; and the sun-god, unmindful of his dignity, carried the lad's nets and held his dogs. It happened on a day that the two friends stripped off their garments, rubbed the juice of the olive upon their bodies, and engaged in throwing the quoit. First Apollo poised it and tossed it far. It cleaved the air with its weight and fell heavily to earth. At that moment Hyacinthus ran forwards and hastened to take up the disc, but the hard earth sent it rebounding straight into his face, so that he fell wounded to the ground. Ah! then, pale and fearful, the sun-god hastened to the side of his fallen friend. He bore up the lad's sinking limbs and strove to stanch his wound with healing herbs. All in vain! Alas! the wound would not close. And as violets and lilies, when their stems are crushed, hang their languid blossoms on their stalks and wither away, so did Hyacinthus droop his beautiful head and die. Then the sun-god, full of grief, cried aloud in his anguish: ``O Beloved! thou fallest in thy early youth, and I alone am the cause of thy destruction! Oh, that I could give my life for thee or with thee! but since Fate will not permit this, thou shalt ever be with me, and thy praise shall dwell on my lips. My lyre struck with my hand, my songs, too, shall celebrate thee! And thou, dear lad, shalt become a new flower, and on thy leaves will I write my lamentations.'' And even as the sun-god spoke, behold! the blood that had flowed from Hyacinthus's wound stained the grass, and a flower, like a lily in shape, sprang up, more bright than Tyrian purple. On its leaves did Apollo inscribe the mournful characters: ``ai, ai,'' which mean ``alas! alas!'' And as oft as the spring drives away the winter, so oft does Hyacinthus blossom in the fresh, green grass. ECHO AND NARCISSUS BY OVID (ADAPTED) Long ago, in the ancient world, there was born to the blue-eyed Nymph Liriope, a beautiful boy, whom she called Narcissus. An oracle foretold at his birth that he should be happy and live to a good old age if he ``never saw himself.'' As this prophecy seemed ridiculous his mother soon forgot all about it. Narcissus grew to be a stately, handsome youth. His limbs were firm and straight. Curls clustered about his white brow, and his eyes shone like two stars. He loved to wander among the meadow flowers and in the pathless woodland. But he disdained his playmates, and would not listen to their entreaties to join in their games. His heart was cold, and in it was neither hate nor love. He lived indifferent to youth or maid, to friend or foe. Now, in the forest near by dwelt a Nymph named Echo. She had been a handmaiden of the goddess Juno. But though the Nymph was beautiful of face, she was not loved. She had a noisy tongue. She told lies and whispered slanders, and encouraged the other Nymphs in many misdoings. So when Juno perceived all this, she ordered the troublesome Nymph away from her court, and banished her to the wildwood, bidding her never speak again except in imitation of other peoples' words. So Echo dwelt in the woods, and forever mocked the words of youths and maidens. One day as Narcissus was wandering alone in the pathless forest, Echo, peeping from behind a tree, saw his beauty, and as she gazed her heart was filled with love. Stealthily she followed his footsteps, and often she tried to call to him with endearing words, but she could not speak, for she no longer had a voice of her own. At last Narcissus heard the sound of breaking branches, and he cried out: ``Is there any one here?'' And Echo answered softly: ``Here!'' Narcissus, amazed, looking about on all sides and seeing no one, cried: ``Come!'' And Echo answered: ``Come!'' Narcissus cried again: ``Who art thou? Whom seekest thou?'' And Echo answered: ``Thou!'' Then rushing from among the trees she tried to throw her arms about his neck, but Narcissus fled through the forest, crying: ``Away! away! I will die before I love thee!'' And Echo answered mournfully: ``I love thee!'' And thus rejected, she hid among the trees, and buried her blushing face in the green leaves. And she pined, and pined, until her body wasted quite away, and nothing but her voice was left. And some say that even to this day her voice lives in lonely caves and answers men's words from afar. Now, when Narcissus fled from Echo, he came to a clear spring, like silver. Its waters were unsullied, for neither goats feeding upon the mountains nor any other cattle had drunk from it, nor had wild beasts or birds disturbed it, nor had branch or leaf fallen into its calm waters. The trees bent above and shaded it from the hot sun, and the soft, green grass grew on its margin. Here Narcissus, fatigued and thirsty after his flight, laid himself down beside the spring to drink. He gazed into the mirror-like water, and saw himself reflected in its tide. He knew not that it was his own image, but thought that he saw a youth living in the spring. He gazed on two eyes like stars, on graceful slender fingers, on clustering curls worthy of Apollo, on a mouth arched like Cupid's bow, on blushing cheeks and ivory neck. And as he gazed his cold heart grew warm, and love for this beautiful reflection rose up and filled his soul. He rained kisses on the deceitful stream. He thrust his arms into the water, and strove to grasp the image by the neck, but it fled away. Again he kissed the stream, but the image mocked his love. And all day and all night, lying there without food or drink, he continued to gaze into the water. Then raising himself, he stretched out his arms to the trees about him, and cried:-- ``Did ever, O ye woods, one love as much as I! Have ye ever seen a lover thus pine for the sake of unrequited affection?'' Then turning once more, Narcissus addressed his reflection in the limpid stream:-- ``Why, dear youth, dost thou flee away from me? Neither a vast sea, nor a long way, nor a great mountain separates us! only a little water keeps us apart! Why, dear lad, dost thou deceive me, and whither dost thou go when I try to grasp thee? Thou encouragest me with friendly looks. When I extend my arms, thou extendest thine; when I smile, thou smilest in return; when I weep, thou weepest; but when I try to clasp thee beneath the stream, thou shunnest me and fleest away! Grief is taking my strength, and my life will soon be over! In my early days am I cut off, nor is Death grievous to me, now that he is about to remove my sorrows!'' Thus mourned Narcissus, lying beside the woodland spring. He disturbed the water with his tears, and made the woods to resound with his sighs. And as the yellow wax is melted by the fire, or the hoar frost is consumed by the heat of the sun, so did Narcissus pine away, his body wasting by degrees. And often as he sighed: ``Alas!'' the grieving Echo from the wood answered: ``Alas!'' With his last breath he looked into the water and sighed: ``Ah, youth beloved, farewell!'' and Echo sighed: ``Farewell!'' And Narcissus, laying his weary head upon the
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