Part 17

The mouse answered him and said, “Friend, why dost thou ask me of my race? It is known to all the gods, and to men, and to all the birds of heaven. My name is Crumbfilcher and I am the son of the great-hearted Breadgnawer, and my mother is Lickmill, the daughter of King Hamnibbler. I was born in a hovel, and fed on figs and nuts and on all manner of good things. But how can we be friends? We are not at all like each other. You frogs live in the water; we feed on whatever is eaten by man. No dainty escapes my eye, whether it be bread, or cake, or ham, or new-made cheese, or rich dishes prepared for feasts. As to war, I have never dreaded its noise, but, going straight into it, have taken my place among the foremost warriors. Nor do I fear men, although they have large bodies; for at night I can bite a finger or nibble a heel without waking the sleeper from his pleasant slumber. But there are two things which I dread greatly—a mouse-trap and a hawk; but worse than these are the weasels, for they can catch us in our holes. What then am I to do? for I cannot eat the cabbages, radishes, and pumpkins, which furnish food to the race of frogs.”

Then Puffcheek answered with a smile, “My friend, thou art dainty enough, but we have fine things to show on the dry land and in the marsh, for the son of Cronos has given us the power to dwell on land or in the water as it may please us. If thou wouldst see these things, it is soon done. Get on my back and hold on well, so that thou mayest reach my house with a cheerful heart.” So he turned his bade to the mouse, who sprang lightly on it and put his arms round his soft neck. Much pleased he was at first to swim on the back of Puffcheek, while the haven was near; but when he got out into midwater, he began to weep and to curse his useless sorrow. He tore his hair, and drew his feet tightly round the frog’s stomach. His heart beat wildly, and he wished himself well on shore, as he uttered a pitiful cry and spread out his tail on the water, moving it about like an oar. Then in the bitterness of his grief he said, “Surely it was not thus the bull carried the beautiful Europa on his back over the sea to Crete; surely—” But before he could say more, a snake, of which frogs and mice alike are afraid, lifted up his head straight above the water. Down dived Puffcheek, when he saw the snake, never thinking that he had left the mouse to die. The frog was safe at the bottom of the marsh, but the mouse fell on his back and screamed terribly. Many times he sank and many times he came up again, kicking hard; but there was no hope. The hair on his skin was soaked and weighed him down, and with his last breath he cried, “Puffcheek, thou shalt not escape for thy treachery. On the land I could have beaten thee in boxing, wrestling, or running; but thou hast beguiled me into the water, where I can do nothing. The eye of justice sees thee, and thou shalt pay a fearful penalty to the great army of the mice.”

So the Crumbfilcher died; but Lickplatter saw him as he sat on the soft bank, and uttering a sharp cry, went to tell the mice. Then was there great wrath among them, and messengers were sent to bid all come in the morning to the house of Breadgnawer, the father of the luckless Crumbfilcher, whose body could not even be buried, because it was floating in the middle of the pond. They came at dawn, and Breadgnawer, rising in grief and rage, said, “Friends, I may be the only one whom the frogs have sorely injured; but we all live a poor life, and I am in sad plight, for I have lost three sons. The first was slain by a hateful weasel who caught him outside his hole. The next one cruel men brought to his death by a newfangled device of wood, which they call a trap; and now my darling Crumbfilcher has been drowned. Come and let us arm ourselves for war and go forth to battle.”

So they each put on his armor. For greaves around their legs they used the beans on which they fed at night, and their breastplates they made cunningly out of the skin of a dead weasel. For spears they carried skewers, and the shell of a nut for a helmet. So they stood in battle array, and the frogs, when they came to hear of it, rose from the water and summoned a council in a corner of the pond. As they wondered what might be the cause of these things, there came a messenger from the mice, who declared war against them and said, “Ye frogs, the mice bid you arm yourselves and come forth to battle, for they have seen Crumbfilcher, whom your king Puffcheek drowned, floating dead on the water.” Then the valiant frogs feared exceedingly, and blamed the deed of Puffcheek; but the king said, “Friends, I did not kill the mouse or see him die; of course he was drowned while he amused himself in the pond by trying to swim like a frog, and the wretches now bring a charge against me who am wholly guiltless. But come, let us take counsel how we may destroy these mice and this, I think, is the best plan. Let us arm ourselves and take our stand where the bank is steepest, and when they come charging against us, let us seize their helmets and drag them down into the pond. Thus we shall drown them all and set up a trophy for our victory.” So they each put on his armor. They covered their legs with mallow leaves, and carried radish leaves for shields, rushes for spears, snail-shells for helmets. Thus they stood in array on the high bank, brandishing their spears and shouting for battle.

But Jupiter summoned the gods to the starry heaven, and, pointing to the hosts of the frogs and mice, mighty as the armies of the Centaurs or the giants, he asked who would aid each side as it might be hard pressed in the strife; and he said to Minerva, “Daughter, thou wilt go surely to the aid of the mice, for they are always running about thy shrine, and delight in the fat and the morsels which they pick from the sacrifices.”

But Minerva said to the son of Cronos, “Father, I go not to help the mice, for they have done me grievous mischief, spoiling the garlands and the lamps for the sake of the oil. Nay, I have greater cause for anger, for they have eaten the robe which I wove from fine thread, and made holes in it; and the man who mended it charges a high price, and, worse still, I borrowed the stuff of which I wove it, and now I cannot pay it back. Yet neither will I aid the frogs, for they are not in their right senses. A little while ago, I came back tired from war and wanting sleep; but they never let me close my eyes with their clatter, and I lay sleepless with a headache till the cock crew in the morning. But, O ye gods, let us aid neither side, lest we be wounded with their swords or spears, for they are sharp and strong, even against gods; let us take our sport by watching the strife in safety.”

The gods did as Minerva bade them, and went all to one place. The gnats, with their great trumpets, gave the signal for battle, and Jupiter thundered out of the sky because of the woes that were coming. Mighty were the deeds that were done on both sides, and the earth and the pond were reddened with the blood of the slain. As the fight went on, Crumbstealer slew Garliceater before he came to land; and Mudwalker, seeing it, threw at him a clod of earth, and, hitting him on the forehead, almost blinded him. In his fury, Crumbstealer seized a great stone, and crushed the leg of the frog, so that he fell on his back in the dust. Then Breadgnawer wounded Puffcheek in the foot, and made him limp into the water.

But among the mice was a young hero, with whom none could be matched for boldness and strength, and his name was Bitstealer. On the bank of the pond he stood alone, and vowed a vow to destroy the whole race of frogs. And the vow would have been accomplished, for his might was great indeed, had not the son of Cronos pitied the frogs in their misery, and charged Minerva and Mars to drive Bitstealer from the battle. But Mars made answer and said, “O Jupiter, neither Minerva nor Mars alone can save the frogs from death. Let us all go and help them; and do thou, son of Cronos, wield thy mighty weapon with which thou didst slay the Titans, and the wild race of giants, for thus only can the bravest of them be slain.” So spake Mars; and Jupiter hurled his scathing thunderbolts, and the lightnings flashed from the sky, and Olympus shook with the earthquake. The frogs and mice heard and trembled; but the mice ceased not yet from the battle, and strove only the more to slay their enemies, until Jupiter, in his pity, sent a new army to aid the frogs.

Suddenly they came on the mice, with mailed backs and crooked claws, with limping gait, and mouths like shears. Their backs were hard and horny, their arms were long and lean, and their eyes were in their breasts. They had eight feet and two heads, and no hands. Men call them crabs. With their mouths they bit the tails and feet and hands of the mice, and broke their spears, and great terror came on all the mice, so that they turned and fled. Thus the battle was ended, and the sun went down.

ORPHEUS THE SWEET SINGER

By Sir George W. Cox

In the pleasant valleys of a country which was called Thessaly, there lived a man whose name was Orpheus. Every day he made soft music with his golden harp, and sang beautiful songs such as no one had ever heard before. And whenever Orpheus sang, then everything came to listen to him, and the trees bowed down their heads to hear; even the clouds sailed along more gently and brightly in the sky when he sang, and the stream which ran close to his feet made a softer noise, to show how glad his music made it.

Now Orpheus had a wife who was called Eurydice, whom he loved very dearly. All through the winter when the snow was on the hills, and all through the summer when the sunshine made everything beautiful, Orpheus used to sing to her; and Eurydice sat on the grass by his side while the beasts came round to listen, and the trees bowed down their heads to hear him.

But one day when Eurydice was playing with some children on the banks of the river, she trod upon a snake in the long grass, and the snake bit her. And by and by she began to be very sick, and Eurydice knew that she must die. So she told the children to go to Orpheus (for he was far away) and say how sorry she was to leave him, and that she loved him always very dearly; and then she put her head down upon the soft grass, and fell asleep and died. Sad indeed was Orpheus when the children came to tell him that Eurydice was dead. He felt so wretched that he never played upon his golden harp, and he never opened his lips to sing; and the beasts that used to listen to him wondered why Orpheus sat all alone on the green bank where Eurydice used to sit with him, and why it was that he never made any more beautiful music. All day long he sat there, and his cheeks were often wet with tears. At last he said, “I cannot stay here any more; I must go and look for Eurydice. I cannot bear to be without her, and perhaps the king of the land where people go after they are dead will let her come back and live with me again.”

So he took his harp in his hand, and went to look for Eurydice in the land where the sun goes down into his golden cup before the night comes on. He went on and on a very long way, till at last he came to a high and dark gateway. It was barred across with iron bars, and was bolted and locked so that nobody could open it. It was a wretched and gloomy place, because the sunshine never came there, and it was covered with clouds and mist. In front of this great gateway there sat a monstrous dog, with three heads, six eyes, and three tongues; and everything was dark around, except his eyes, which shone like fire, and which saw every one that dared to come near. Now when Orpheus came looking for Eurydice, the dog raised his three heads, opened his three mouths, and gnashed his teeth at him, and roared terribly; but when Orpheus came nearer, the dog jumped up on his feet ready to fly at him and tear him to pieces. Then Orpheus took down his harp and began to play upon its golden strings. And the dog Cerberus (for that was his name) growled and snarled and showed the great white teeth in his three mouths; but he could not help hearing the sweet music, and he wondered why it was that he no longer wished to tear Orpheus in pieces. Soon the music made him quiet and still, and at last it lulled him to sleep. Then Orpheus passed by him and came up to the gate, and found it wide open, for it had come open of its own accord while he was singing. He was glad when he saw this, for he thought that now he should see Eurydice.

So he went on and on a long way, until he came to the palace of the king; and there were guards placed before the door who tried to keep him from going in; but Orpheus played upon his harp, and they could not help letting him pass.

So he went into the great hall, where he saw the king and queen sitting on a throne; and as he came near, the king called out to him with a loud and terrible voice, “Who are you, and how dare you to come here? Do you not know that no one is allowed to come here till after he is dead? I will have you chained and placed in a dungeon, from which you will never be able to get out.” Orpheus said nothing; but took his golden harp in his hand and began to sing more sweetly and gently than ever. And as he sang, the face of the king began to look almost glad, and his anger passed away. Then the king said, “You have made me feel happy with your sweet music, although I have never felt happy before; and now tell me why you have come, because you must want something, for, otherwise, no one would come, before he was dead, to this sad and gloomy land of which I am the king.” Then Orpheus said, “O king, give me back my dear Eurydice, and let her go from this gloomy place and live with me on the bright earth again.” So the king said that she could go. And the king said to Orpheus, “I have given you what you wanted, because you sang so sweetly; and when you go back to the earth from this place, your wife whom you love shall go up after you: but remember that you must never look back until she has reached the earth, for if you do, Eurydice will be brought back here, and I shall not be able to give her to you again, even if you should sing more sweetly and gently than ever.”

Now Orpheus was longing to see Eurydice, and he hoped that the king would let him see her at once; but when the king said that he must not try to see her till she had reached the earth, he was quite content, for he said, “Shall I not wait patiently a little while, that Eurydice may come and live with me again?” So he promised the king that he would go up to the earth without stopping to look behind and see whether Eurydice was coming after him.

Then Orpheus left the palace of the king, and he passed through the dark gateway, and the dog Cerberus did not bark or growl, for he knew that Orpheus would not have been allowed to come back, if the king had not wished it. So he went on and on a long way; and he became impatient, and longed more and more to see Eurydice. At last he came near to the land of living men, and he saw just a little streak of light, where the sun was going to rise from the sea; and presently the sky became brighter, and he saw everything before him so clearly that he could not help turning round to look at Eurydice. But, ah! she had not yet quite reached the earth, and so he lost her again. He saw something pale and white, which looked like his own dear wife; and he just heard a soft and gentle voice, which sounded like the voice of Eurydice, and then it all melted away. And still he thought that he saw that pale white face, and heard that soft voice, which said, “O Orpheus, Orpheus, why did you look back? How dearly I love you, and how glad I should have been to live with you again; but now I must go back, because you have broken your promise to the king, and I must not even kiss you, and say how much I love you.”

Orpheus sat down at the place where Eurydice was taken from him; he could go no further. There he stayed day after day, and his cheeks became paler, and his body weaker and weaker, till at last he knew that he must die. And Orpheus was not sorry; for although he loved the bright earth, with all its flowers and grass and sunny streams, he knew that he could not be with Eurydice again until he had left it. So at last he laid his head upon the earth, and fell asleep, and died: and then he and Eurydice saw each other in the land which is far away, where the sun goes down at night into his golden cup, and were never parted again.

NIOBE, A VICTIM OF LATONA’S JEALOUSY

By Thomas Bulfinch

Niobe, the Queen of Thebes, had much to be proud of; but it was not her husband’s fame, nor her own beauty, nor their great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her. It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been if only she had not claimed to be so.

It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honor of Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana—when the people of Thebes were assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense in the altars and paying their vows—that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. “What folly,” said she, “is this!—to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored with worship, and none be paid to me? My father was Tantalus, who was received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules this city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan’s daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue. She may take from me much; I shall still have much left. Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Away with you from these solemnities—put off the laurel from your brows—have done with this worship!” The people obeyed, and left the sacred services uncompleted.

The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top where she dwelt she thus addressed her son and daughter: “My children, I who have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect me.”

She was proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. “Say no more,” said he; “speech only delays punishment.”

So said Diana also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest—some mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots.

Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, “Ah, me!” dropped the reins, and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow—like a boatman who sees the storm gathering and makes all sail for the port—gave the reins to his horses and attempted to escape. The arrow overtook him as he fled. Two younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a cry together, cast a parting look around them, and together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them fall, hastened to the spot to render assistance, and fell stricken in the act.

One only was left, Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer might not vail. “Spare me, ye gods!” he cried, addressing all; and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late.

The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it possible; she was indignant that the gods had dared, and amazed that they had been able, to do it. Her husband, Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself.

Alas! how different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed now one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, “Cruel Latona,” said she, “feed full your rage with my anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than you, my conqueror.”

Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe’s alone. She was brave from excess of grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she was bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment, another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. “Spare me one, and that the youngest! O spare me one of so many!” she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, stunned with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She was changed to stone. Yet tears continued to flow; and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.

THE SAD STORY OF PYRAMUS AND THISBE

By Thomas Bulfinch

Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden, in all Babylon, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining houses, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, they could not forbid—that love should glow with equal ardor in the hearts of both. They conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned more intensely for being covered up. In the wall that separated the two houses there was a crack. No one had remarked it before, but the lovers discovered it. It afforded a passage to the voice, and messages used to pass backward and forward through the gap. “Cruel wall,” they said, “why do you keep us apart? But we will not be ungrateful. We owe you the privilege of transmitting loving words to willing ears.” Such words they uttered on different sides of the wall; and when night came and they must say farewell, they pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side, he on his, as they could come no nearer.