Part 9

At that instant the discus, turned from its course by Zephyrous, the wind-god, who also loved Hyacinthus and was jealous of Apollo's affection for him, struck the earth and bounded back, hitting Hyacinthus' forehead.

Apollo, as pale as the fallen Hyacinthus, ran to his side, raised him, and tried with all his art to stop the bleeding of his wound and save his life. But the youth's hurt was beyond the power of all healing. As a white lily, when one has broken it, hangs its head in the garden and turns toward the earth, so the head of the dying Hyacinthus, too heavy for his neck, lay upon his shoulders.

"I have killed you, my dearest friend," Apollo cried, as the people pushed closer to see the tragedy and then turned their faces away from this grief of a god which was greater than a mortal could feel. "I have robbed you of your youth. Yours was the suffering and mine the crime. I would that I were able to mingle my blood with yours which is spilled here for me." Then Apollo was silent, looking at the ground where Hyacinthus' blood had stained the grass, for a wonder was happening.

The crimson stain on the leaves changed to royal purple, and the stem and foliage and petals of a new flower appeared, so sweetly fragrant that it filled the whole field with its perfume. There had never been so beautiful a blossom as this. Touching its wax-like flowers, Apollo knew that the gods had comforted him in his sorrow. His friend would live always in the flower that had sprung where he fell on Parnassus, our hyacinth, the promise of the spring.

HOW KING MIDAS LOST HIS EARS.

They needed a new king in the country of Phrygia in Asia and there was an old saying at the court that some day they would have a ruler who arrived at the palace in a farm wagon.

No one had thought very much about this prophecy but, to the surprise of all, a peasant and his wife drove into the public square one day in an ox cart, bringing their son, Midas, on the seat between them. The peasant's name was Gordius, and he dismounted, tying his wagon in such a hard knot that it looked as if he intended that the team should stay there. In fact it was called the Gordian knot and it was so hard a knot that it was reported that he who was able to untie it would be the ruler of all Asia.

The wagon remained there, just outside the palace gates, securely fastened, and Gordius and his wife walked home leaving Midas. It was so exactly an interpretation of the prophecy that Midas was made king and put upon the throne of Phrygia.

He had every opportunity of being a ruler of parts, for his humble birth would not have interfered at all, but Midas, from the very beginning of his reign, used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead of carrying out the will of the people.

Bacchus, with vine leaves twisted about his curling locks and a goblet of the purple juice of the grape always in his hand, was the god of the vineyards. King Midas made the acquaintance of Bacchus, who was a friendly, peaceful god and fond of human companionship. And Bacchus unexpectedly offered Midas his choice of any wish that he cherished.

What did King Midas ask but that whatever he touched might be turned to gold!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOW MERCURY GAVE UP HIS TRICKS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mercury stood up very straight as he said,

"I will try."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A LITTLE ERRAND GIRL'S NEW DRESS

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

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

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

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

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

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