“From his pipe the smoke ascendingFilled the sky with haze and vapor,Filled the air with dreamy softness,Gave a twinkle to the water,Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,Brought the tender Indian SummerTo the melancholy north-land,In the dreary moon of Snow-shoes.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“From his pipe the smoke ascendingFilled the sky with haze and vapor,Filled the air with dreamy softness,Gave a twinkle to the water,Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,Brought the tender Indian SummerTo the melancholy north-land,In the dreary moon of Snow-shoes.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“From his pipe the smoke ascendingFilled the sky with haze and vapor,Filled the air with dreamy softness,Gave a twinkle to the water,Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,Brought the tender Indian SummerTo the melancholy north-land,In the dreary moon of Snow-shoes.”
Once Shawondasee thought he saw a maiden with golden tresses standing far away in the meadow. He loved her, but was too lazy to bestir himself to woo her. After watching her for some time, and always loving her, alas! her golden hair changed to white floss and was blown about the prairie.
Shawondasee was sad, and he thought that his brother Kabibonokka had turned her hair from gold to white. But it was no maiden he had seen. It was only the prairie dandelion.
Gay little DandelionLights up the meads,Swings on her slender foot,Telleth her beads;Lists to the robin’s notePoured from above:Wise little DandelionAsks not for love.Cold lie the daisy banksClothed but in green,Where in the days agoneBright hues were seen.Wild pinks are slumbering;Violets delay:True little DandelionGreeteth the May.Brave little Dandelion;Fast falls the snow,Bending the daffodil’sHaughty head low.Under that fleecy tent,Careless of cold,Blithe little DandelionCounteth her gold.Meek little DandelionGroweth more fair,Till dies the amber dewOut from her hair.High rides the thirsty sun,Fiercely and high;Faint little DandelionCloseth her eye.Pale little Dandelion,In her white shroud,Heareth the angel breezeCall from the cloud.Tiny plumes flutteringMake no delay;Little winged DandelionSoareth away.—Helen B. Bostwick.
Gay little DandelionLights up the meads,Swings on her slender foot,Telleth her beads;Lists to the robin’s notePoured from above:Wise little DandelionAsks not for love.Cold lie the daisy banksClothed but in green,Where in the days agoneBright hues were seen.Wild pinks are slumbering;Violets delay:True little DandelionGreeteth the May.Brave little Dandelion;Fast falls the snow,Bending the daffodil’sHaughty head low.Under that fleecy tent,Careless of cold,Blithe little DandelionCounteth her gold.Meek little DandelionGroweth more fair,Till dies the amber dewOut from her hair.High rides the thirsty sun,Fiercely and high;Faint little DandelionCloseth her eye.Pale little Dandelion,In her white shroud,Heareth the angel breezeCall from the cloud.Tiny plumes flutteringMake no delay;Little winged DandelionSoareth away.—Helen B. Bostwick.
Gay little DandelionLights up the meads,Swings on her slender foot,Telleth her beads;Lists to the robin’s notePoured from above:Wise little DandelionAsks not for love.
Cold lie the daisy banksClothed but in green,Where in the days agoneBright hues were seen.Wild pinks are slumbering;Violets delay:True little DandelionGreeteth the May.
Brave little Dandelion;Fast falls the snow,Bending the daffodil’sHaughty head low.Under that fleecy tent,Careless of cold,Blithe little DandelionCounteth her gold.
Meek little DandelionGroweth more fair,Till dies the amber dewOut from her hair.High rides the thirsty sun,Fiercely and high;Faint little DandelionCloseth her eye.
Pale little Dandelion,In her white shroud,Heareth the angel breezeCall from the cloud.Tiny plumes flutteringMake no delay;Little winged DandelionSoareth away.
To the fierce Kabibonokka, Mudjekeewis gave the cold and cruel north wind. He lives far away toward the north in the regions of ice and snow. In the autumn and winter he comes out from his home, and travels toward the south.
He stamps upon the rivers, and the waters freeze. Frost pictures appear upon the windowpanes, the birds fly southward, and no one remains in the kingdom of the north wind but the Diver. This brave Diver caresnot for the cold or for the stormy north wind. He sits in his wigwam, merry and warm; for he has four great logs for his fire, and each log will last a month. Kabibonokka enters the wigwam, but cannot stand the heat, and so taunts the Diver and dares him to a combat in the open air. Long they fight; but at length the Diver conquers, and the cold and fierce Kabibonokka is driven back into his kingdom of the north.
The Diver is the glorious sun, who, with his warm golden beams, beats back the cold, and brings the pleasant summer with the birds and flowers.
“But the fierce KabibonokkaHad his dwelling among icebergs,In the everlasting snowdrifts,In the kingdom of Wabasso,In the land of the White Rabbit.He it was whose hand in AutumnPainted all the trees with scarlet,Stained the leaves with red and yellow;He it was who sent the snowflakes,Sifting, hissing, through the forest,Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,Drove the loon and sea gull southward,Drove the cormorant and curlewTo their nests of sedge and sea tangIn the realms of Shawondasee.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“But the fierce KabibonokkaHad his dwelling among icebergs,In the everlasting snowdrifts,In the kingdom of Wabasso,In the land of the White Rabbit.He it was whose hand in AutumnPainted all the trees with scarlet,Stained the leaves with red and yellow;He it was who sent the snowflakes,Sifting, hissing, through the forest,Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,Drove the loon and sea gull southward,Drove the cormorant and curlewTo their nests of sedge and sea tangIn the realms of Shawondasee.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“But the fierce KabibonokkaHad his dwelling among icebergs,In the everlasting snowdrifts,In the kingdom of Wabasso,In the land of the White Rabbit.He it was whose hand in AutumnPainted all the trees with scarlet,Stained the leaves with red and yellow;He it was who sent the snowflakes,Sifting, hissing, through the forest,Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,Drove the loon and sea gull southward,Drove the cormorant and curlewTo their nests of sedge and sea tangIn the realms of Shawondasee.”
Which is the wind that brings the cold?The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow;And the sheep will scamper into the foldWhen the north begins to blow.Which is the wind that brings the heat?The south wind, Katy; and corn will grow,And peaches redden for you to eat,When the south begins to blow.Which is the wind that brings the rain?The east wind, Arty; and farmers knowThat cows come shivering up the lane,When the east begins to blow.Which is the wind that brings the flowers?The west wind, Bessy; and soft and lowThe birdies sing in the summer hours,When the west begins to blow.—Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Which is the wind that brings the cold?The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow;And the sheep will scamper into the foldWhen the north begins to blow.Which is the wind that brings the heat?The south wind, Katy; and corn will grow,And peaches redden for you to eat,When the south begins to blow.Which is the wind that brings the rain?The east wind, Arty; and farmers knowThat cows come shivering up the lane,When the east begins to blow.Which is the wind that brings the flowers?The west wind, Bessy; and soft and lowThe birdies sing in the summer hours,When the west begins to blow.—Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Which is the wind that brings the cold?The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow;And the sheep will scamper into the foldWhen the north begins to blow.
Which is the wind that brings the heat?The south wind, Katy; and corn will grow,And peaches redden for you to eat,When the south begins to blow.
Which is the wind that brings the rain?The east wind, Arty; and farmers knowThat cows come shivering up the lane,When the east begins to blow.
Which is the wind that brings the flowers?The west wind, Bessy; and soft and lowThe birdies sing in the summer hours,When the west begins to blow.
Iris flying, carrying a pitcher aloftGuy Head (Rome).Iris.
Guy Head (Rome).
Iris.
The Greeks lived much in the open air, and they loved to watch the fleecy clouds float lazily across the blue heavens, or at night to see the bright, golden stars shine down upon them like friendly eyes. They believed that Juno was goddess of the heavens when they were calm and peaceful, as Jupiter was god of the storm cloud and of the thunderbolt.
Whenever they saw the radiant rainbow, they said, “There is the glowing Iris, the messenger of Juno, carrying some message from the sky to the earth.” They thought that Iris had shining wings of various colors, and that while she stayed upon earth, you could see her path in the heavens marked by the many-colored rainbow.
My heart looks up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky.So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow oldOr let me die!The child is father of the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—William Wordsworth.
My heart looks up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky.So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow oldOr let me die!The child is father of the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—William Wordsworth.
My heart looks up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky.So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow oldOr let me die!The child is father of the man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
The Indians had a lovely thought about the rainbow,—perhaps more beautiful than the belief of the Greeks.
You know how sweet and beautiful the flowers are, how we love the roses, the lilies, the pansies, and the golden-rod, and how sorry we are to have them leave us when the cold winds blow.
The Indians also loved the flowers; and they fancied, when they saw such lovely colors in the rainbow which spans the heavens, that all the wild flowers—the lilies, the buttercups, and windflowers, the dainty violets and the moss of the woods—were still living and blossoming in the heavens.
Our poet Longfellow has told us about this myth in his “Song of Hiawatha.” The little Hiawatha
“Saw the rainbow in the heaven,In the eastern sky, the rainbow,Whispered, ‘What is that, Nokomis?’And the good Nokomis answered:‘’Tis the heaven of flowers you see there;All the wild flowers of the forest,All the lilies of the prairie,When on earth they fade and perish,Blossom in that heaven above us.’”
“Saw the rainbow in the heaven,In the eastern sky, the rainbow,Whispered, ‘What is that, Nokomis?’And the good Nokomis answered:‘’Tis the heaven of flowers you see there;All the wild flowers of the forest,All the lilies of the prairie,When on earth they fade and perish,Blossom in that heaven above us.’”
“Saw the rainbow in the heaven,In the eastern sky, the rainbow,Whispered, ‘What is that, Nokomis?’And the good Nokomis answered:‘’Tis the heaven of flowers you see there;All the wild flowers of the forest,All the lilies of the prairie,When on earth they fade and perish,Blossom in that heaven above us.’”
In the Old Testament we are told that many, many years ago there was a great flood. It had rained for fortydays and forty nights, when suddenly the rain ceased, and a beautiful rainbow was seen by the people on the earth. How glad they were to see it! For they knew it was God’s promise not to send another flood, and they were happy in this thought.
“And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant.”
Two little clouds one summer’s dayWent flying through the sky.They went so fast they bumped their heads,And both began to cry.Old Father Sun looked out and said,“O, never mind, my dears,I’ll send my little fairy folkTo dry your falling tears.”One fairy came in violet,And one in indigo,In blue, green, yellow, orange, red,—They made a pretty row.They wiped the cloud tears all away,And then, from out the sky,Upon a line the sunbeams madeThey hung their gowns to dry.—Lizzie M. Hadley.
Two little clouds one summer’s dayWent flying through the sky.They went so fast they bumped their heads,And both began to cry.Old Father Sun looked out and said,“O, never mind, my dears,I’ll send my little fairy folkTo dry your falling tears.”One fairy came in violet,And one in indigo,In blue, green, yellow, orange, red,—They made a pretty row.They wiped the cloud tears all away,And then, from out the sky,Upon a line the sunbeams madeThey hung their gowns to dry.—Lizzie M. Hadley.
Two little clouds one summer’s dayWent flying through the sky.They went so fast they bumped their heads,And both began to cry.Old Father Sun looked out and said,“O, never mind, my dears,I’ll send my little fairy folkTo dry your falling tears.”
One fairy came in violet,And one in indigo,In blue, green, yellow, orange, red,—They made a pretty row.They wiped the cloud tears all away,And then, from out the sky,Upon a line the sunbeams madeThey hung their gowns to dry.
Narcissus was a vain youth, and loved no one but himself. One day, while looking into a quiet stream, he thought he saw a lovely naiad in the water gazing up at him.
He smiled upon her, and she also smiled. Day after day he came to the bank and begged the lovely naiad to come out of the water, and roam with him through the flowery meadows of earth. Every day he believed she would come; for she seemed to smile upon him and welcome him, even as he spoke and smiled upon her.
Some days, when the waters were dark and ruffled by the wind, he could not see her blue eyes and golden ringlets, and he thought she was vexed with him.
He never knew it was his own face he saw reflected in the water, and at last, after weary watching and waiting, he pined away and died. Echo and all the nymphs of the stream and of the grove mourned for him. He was beautiful even in death, for the gods had changed him into a flower. His pale face and golden hair were changed into the delicate narcissus, which delights us with its graceful form and rare fragrance.
The narcissus grows upon the margin of streams, and, bending over the waters, seems to admire its image mirrored there.
A brook runs beneath an overhanging treeThe Brook.
The Brook.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling.And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery water breakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-nots,That grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling.And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery water breakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-nots,That grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.—Alfred Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.
I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery water breakAbove the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-nots,That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.
And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.
Diana had many young and lovely nymphs, who attended her in her rambles over the wooded hills. Among these maids was Echo, a very graceful and merry nymph of the mountain. Echo had one serious fault, however. She was too fond of talking, and was always anxious to say the last word.
One day she angered Juno, with whom she was talking, and the goddess punished her severely. She said,—“Echo, this shall be your punishment for trying to deceive me. You may still have the last word as you are so fond of it, but never the first. You shall not have the power to begin the conversation; you may only reply.”
Soon after this Echo met Narcissus, a handsome youth who was hunting upon the mountain. She admired his grace and skill in the hunt and wished very much to join in the chase. But she could not speak to him, and when he called to his companions she could only repeat the last words. Narcissus did not care to please the nymph, and so refused to speak with her or to allow her to join in the hunt.
Echo calls out across the hills. Painting signed Edouard Bisson, 1892Copyright, 1893, by Photographische Gesellschaft.Echo.
Copyright, 1893, by Photographische Gesellschaft.
Echo.
After Narcissus left the mountain, Echo sought a lonely cave amid the rocks; and she grieved so over her punishment, that she pined away until nothing was leftof the lovely nymph but her voice. Sometimes, in the lonely mountain paths, if you call, you will hear Echo repeating your words softly from a distance. But you will never see her; she is nothing but a voice.
Blue! ’Tis the life of heaven,—the domainOf Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,—The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,—The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun.Blue! ’Tis the life of waters—oceanAnd all its vassal streams; pools numberlessMay range, and foam, and fret, but never canSubside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green,Married to green in all the sweetest flowers—Forget-me-not, the bluebell, and that queenOf secrecy, the violet: what strange powersHast thou, as a mere shadow! But how greatWhen in an eye thou art alive with fate!—John Keats.
Blue! ’Tis the life of heaven,—the domainOf Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,—The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,—The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun.Blue! ’Tis the life of waters—oceanAnd all its vassal streams; pools numberlessMay range, and foam, and fret, but never canSubside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green,Married to green in all the sweetest flowers—Forget-me-not, the bluebell, and that queenOf secrecy, the violet: what strange powersHast thou, as a mere shadow! But how greatWhen in an eye thou art alive with fate!—John Keats.
Blue! ’Tis the life of heaven,—the domainOf Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,—The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,—The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun.
Blue! ’Tis the life of waters—oceanAnd all its vassal streams; pools numberlessMay range, and foam, and fret, but never canSubside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.
Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green,Married to green in all the sweetest flowers—Forget-me-not, the bluebell, and that queenOf secrecy, the violet: what strange powersHast thou, as a mere shadow! But how greatWhen in an eye thou art alive with fate!
The Parthenon viewed from the front. Drawing signed GuiponAthens.The Parthenon.
Athens.
The Parthenon.
The wonderful goddess Minerva is said to have come full-grown from the brain of her father, Jupiter, king of the gods. She is tall, and clad in full armor. Her name Minerva means “mind.” She is called the goddess of wisdom, and she took the throne which the stupid goddess Dullness had held before. Unlike Mars, Minerva does not love war, but she is very brave when compelled to fight.
A city in Greece was to be named, and Neptune and Minerva contended for the honor. The gods decidedthat the one who produced the article most valuable to man should name the city.
Neptune struck the ground with his trident, and there sprang forth a horse, strong and noble. All admired Neptune’s gift, and did not believe that Minerva could surpass him.
When Minerva produced the olive tree, they laughed, and all thought that Neptune had won. But the goddess told them that the olive tree could furnish wood for fire, for building houses, and for making many useful articles; that food and oil could be obtained from it; and that even clothing could be made from its fiber.
The gods then said that, while men could live without horses, they could not live without food, warmth, and shelter, and Minerva had the honor of naming the city.
Minerva was called Pallas Athene by the Greeks, and so the city in Greece was named Athens. In this city was erected a beautiful temple in her honor, called the Parthenon. Its ruins are still standing.
In this temple was a magnificent statue of Minerva, made by the great sculptor Phidias. It was of ivory and gold. The goddess wears a long cloak and a helmet, and carries a shield and spear. At her feet is coiled a serpent, the emblem of wisdom. Minerva has clear blue eyes, is always calm and dignified, and helps all those who wish to excel in wisdom, or to obtain skill in the arts of peace.
Arachne was a young girl who was famous for her skill in embroidery and weaving. All the women of Greece knew that she excelled in this feminine work, and they liked to see her with her loom or needle. Even the nymphs, who love to sport about the fountains and in the groves, would leave their play to watch her.
It was pleasant to see her deftly separate the wool, and card it until it was soft and fleecy as down. Then dexterously twirling the spindle, she wove the web so quickly and easily that one watched her fingers with delight. Under her skillful touch, the trees in her tapestry seemed to bend before the gentle breeze, and the flowers were so perfect that they were as beautiful as those growing in the gardens.
“Minerva, the goddess of weaving, must be her teacher,” said all who saw her wonderful work.
But this did not please Arachne, who was vain and proud. “I am my own teacher,” she said, with a saucy toss of her pretty head, “and Minerva herself cannot compete with me.”
This proud boast Minerva heard. The gods do not like such boasting, and Minerva determined to correct her or to punish her. She changed her form, and appeared before Arachne as a wise old woman.
Minerva, carrying a spear and accompanied by a snakeVatican, Rome.Minerva.
Vatican, Rome.
Minerva.
“My child,” she said, “do not challenge a goddess. Your work is beautiful and deserves praise, but Minerva’s skill is that of a goddess. You are a mortal, and you should ask forgiveness of Minerva for your rash speech.”
Arachne was angry at these wise words, and replied: “I do not wish your advice. I do not fear the goddess, and do not ask her forgiveness. If she is not afraid, let her come, and we will compare our work.”
Lo! as she spoke, Minerva dropped her disguise, and stood revealed—a goddess. All around were amazed, and trembled before the glorious Minerva, except the angry Arachne.
Her friends tried to influence her to give up the contest, and to ask Minerva to forgive her irreverent words. But Arachne still thought she could excel the goddess in weaving, and, as Minerva said no more, the contest began.
Each took her place. Wools of different dyes were given them. Both worked with speed, and the slender shuttle seemed to fly under their fingers.
Arachne showed Leda and the swan, and Europa and the bull, with such fidelity to nature that they seemed to move and breathe. But the goddess showed her contest with Neptune. Twelve of the great gods were represented. Neptune with his trident had just produced the horse, that animal so strong and so useful to man.Minerva stood with her helmet and shield, showing her gift to man—the olive tree.
All the beholders saw that Minerva had surpassed Arachne, and felt that the proud girl must be punished for her pride and impiety. Minerva, more in pity than in anger, touched Arachne’s forehead and said, “Live, guilty woman, and thus shall you preserve the memory of this lesson to all future times.”
Speaking thus, the goddess changed the hapless Arachne into a spider. If you look at a spider’s web, you will see that the descendants of Arachne still show great patience and skill, and spin wonderful webs.
She made the story of the old debateWhich she with Neptune did for Athens try:Twelve gods do sit around in royal state,And Jove in midst with awful majesty,To judge the strife between them stirréd late;Each of the gods, by his like visnomyIs to be known, but Jove above them all,By his great looks and power imperial.Before them stands the god of seas in place,Claiming that seacoast city as his right;And strikes the rocks with his three-forkéd mace;Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,The sign by which he challengeth the place;That all the gods, which saw his wondrous might,Did surely deem the victory his due;But seldom seen, forejudgment proveth true.Then to herself she gives her Ægide shield,And steel-head spear, and morion on her headSuch as she oft is seen in warlike field:Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dreadShe smote the ground, the which straightforth did yieldA fruitful olive tree, with berries spread,That all the gods admired: then, all the storyShe compassed with a wreath of olives hoary.Amongst these leaves she made a butterfly,With excellent device and wondrous slight,Flutt’ring among the olives wantonly,That seemed to live, so like it was in sight:The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,The silken down with which his back is dight,His broad outstretchéd horns, his hairy thighs,His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes.—Edmund Spenser.
She made the story of the old debateWhich she with Neptune did for Athens try:Twelve gods do sit around in royal state,And Jove in midst with awful majesty,To judge the strife between them stirréd late;Each of the gods, by his like visnomyIs to be known, but Jove above them all,By his great looks and power imperial.Before them stands the god of seas in place,Claiming that seacoast city as his right;And strikes the rocks with his three-forkéd mace;Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,The sign by which he challengeth the place;That all the gods, which saw his wondrous might,Did surely deem the victory his due;But seldom seen, forejudgment proveth true.Then to herself she gives her Ægide shield,And steel-head spear, and morion on her headSuch as she oft is seen in warlike field:Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dreadShe smote the ground, the which straightforth did yieldA fruitful olive tree, with berries spread,That all the gods admired: then, all the storyShe compassed with a wreath of olives hoary.Amongst these leaves she made a butterfly,With excellent device and wondrous slight,Flutt’ring among the olives wantonly,That seemed to live, so like it was in sight:The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,The silken down with which his back is dight,His broad outstretchéd horns, his hairy thighs,His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes.—Edmund Spenser.
She made the story of the old debateWhich she with Neptune did for Athens try:Twelve gods do sit around in royal state,And Jove in midst with awful majesty,To judge the strife between them stirréd late;Each of the gods, by his like visnomyIs to be known, but Jove above them all,By his great looks and power imperial.
Before them stands the god of seas in place,Claiming that seacoast city as his right;And strikes the rocks with his three-forkéd mace;Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,The sign by which he challengeth the place;That all the gods, which saw his wondrous might,Did surely deem the victory his due;But seldom seen, forejudgment proveth true.
Then to herself she gives her Ægide shield,And steel-head spear, and morion on her headSuch as she oft is seen in warlike field:Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dreadShe smote the ground, the which straightforth did yieldA fruitful olive tree, with berries spread,That all the gods admired: then, all the storyShe compassed with a wreath of olives hoary.
Amongst these leaves she made a butterfly,With excellent device and wondrous slight,Flutt’ring among the olives wantonly,That seemed to live, so like it was in sight:The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,The silken down with which his back is dight,His broad outstretchéd horns, his hairy thighs,His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes.
Bas-relief showing Minerva with a young boy and a bearded manA. B. Thorwaldsen.Minerva, Prometheus, and Man.
A. B. Thorwaldsen.
Minerva, Prometheus, and Man.
The gods told the wise Prometheus to bestow gifts upon all the animals of the earth, according to their need. So to the deer he gave swiftness; to the lion, courage; to the horse, strength; to the eagle, strongpinions; to the ox, patience; to the dog, keenness of scent; and to the nightingale, a melodious voice.
After the animals had all received special gifts, the gods told Prometheus to make man to rule over them. Prometheus made man after the image of the gods, but smaller and weaker, and Minerva gave to him mind and soul. Prometheus loved the man he had made, but as he had already bestowed all the gifts he had upon the animals, for a long time he could not think of a way in which to give man power over them. At last he decided that he must obtain for man the gift of fire.
But how could he get this wonderful element? He knew that Jupiter would never grant it; for fire belonged to Apollo, the god of the sun, and punishment would be inflicted upon any one who attempted to obtain it by stealth or by force. Yet his love for man prevailed over his fear and by night he approached the chariot wheels of the sun and stole some fire, bringing it to earth in a hollow tube. With this power, man conquers the cold, makes the minerals plastic, forces his way through mountains, and crosses deep seas.
When Jupiter discovered that Prometheus had bestowed this great gift on man, he punished him very severely; but Prometheus endured the punishment bravely, conscious that man would always profit by his daring. Prometheus has always been called the friend of man, and many poets have written in his honor.
Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedgeLeans to the field, and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThat first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dowerFar brighter than this gaudy melon flower!—Robert Browning.
Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedgeLeans to the field, and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThat first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dowerFar brighter than this gaudy melon flower!—Robert Browning.
Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!
And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedgeLeans to the field, and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThat first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dowerFar brighter than this gaudy melon flower!
Adonis was a youth of wonderful beauty. Tall and lithe and graceful, he seemed like a young god, although he was but a mortal. He was fond of hunting, and day after day found him roaming over the hills and through the forests with his bow and arrows. His step was light and bounding, and he seemed to belong to the life of the hills as much as the trees and flowers.
Tired with the hunt, he would throw himself upon the leafy turf and look up through the great branches of the trees to the azure skies.
It seemed to him that he could understand what the leaves were saying, as they rustled in the breeze. The clouds made him think of white-sailed boats floating on a blue sea, and he wished that he could sail with them to the home of the god of the golden sun. The grass seemed to whisper to him and tell him the secrets of the earth mother, and the streams leaping down the mountain sides seemed to laugh joyously and to call upon him to follow.
Adonis did not care for city life; the woods held all of beauty for him. And he was not at all surprised, one day, when he saw Venus coming towards him, her beauty radiant in the sunlight. She seemed to him to be at home in the woods he loved so well.
Venus loved Adonis, and they went hunting together. Adonis was bold, and wished to chase the larger game; but Venus warned him against the fierce wild boars and the wolves. When Venus was with Adonis, he listened to her advice. But in her absence, one day, he pursued a wild boar. His arrow struck the boar and angered him. Fiercely the animal sprang upon the youthful hunter, and thrust his tusks through his side, and Adonis sank in death.
Venus grieved for his death. “Alas!” she cried, “why did you hunt the cruel beasts which care not for youth or grace or beauty? Long shall I lament your untimely death, Adonis. From your blood a flower shall spring to keep your memory upon the earth, and people shall say, ‘This is the flower of Adonis.’” At that moment blossomed the tender anemone, the windflower, which every spring adorns the warm hillsides.
This myth has almost the same meaning as the myth of Ceres and Persephone. When the youthful Adonis, the springtime of the year, is hunting over the hills and valleys, Venus, the cherishing mother, is glad and happy in his presence, and all the earth is filled with flower and fruit.
But before the tusk of the wild boar, the cruel and frosty winter, Adonis is slain; and Venus grieves, as Ceres laments when Persephone is in the kingdom of Pluto.
A dewdrop came, with a spark of flameHe had caught from the sun’s last ray,To a violet’s breast, where he lay at restTill the hours brought back the day.The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;But she smiled all at once, to viewHer own bright form, with its coloring warm,Reflected back by the dew.Then the stranger took a stolen lookAt the sky, so soft and blue;And a leaflet green with its silver sheen,Was seen by the idler too.A cold north wind, as he thus reclined,Of a sudden raged around;And a maiden fair, who was walking there,Next morning, an opal found.
A dewdrop came, with a spark of flameHe had caught from the sun’s last ray,To a violet’s breast, where he lay at restTill the hours brought back the day.The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;But she smiled all at once, to viewHer own bright form, with its coloring warm,Reflected back by the dew.Then the stranger took a stolen lookAt the sky, so soft and blue;And a leaflet green with its silver sheen,Was seen by the idler too.A cold north wind, as he thus reclined,Of a sudden raged around;And a maiden fair, who was walking there,Next morning, an opal found.
A dewdrop came, with a spark of flameHe had caught from the sun’s last ray,To a violet’s breast, where he lay at restTill the hours brought back the day.
The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;But she smiled all at once, to viewHer own bright form, with its coloring warm,Reflected back by the dew.
Then the stranger took a stolen lookAt the sky, so soft and blue;And a leaflet green with its silver sheen,Was seen by the idler too.
A cold north wind, as he thus reclined,Of a sudden raged around;And a maiden fair, who was walking there,Next morning, an opal found.
Far away in the west was a beautiful land that belonged to King Hesperus. This king had three lovely daughters who cared for the fruits and flowers of the gardens. In the gardens were many graceful trees whose boughs bent under the weight of delicious fruit. Flowers red, yellow, and orange adorned the walks.
When Juno, goddess of the sky, married Jupiter, her sister Ceres gave her a handsome present. Ceres is the earth goddess who cultivates the fruits, flowers, and grains, and the best gift she could bestow upon her sister was some golden apples.
Juno prized these apples highly, and gave them to the Hesperides, the daughters of Hesperus. They placed them upon the shadiest tree of the garden, and watched and cared for them very carefully.
Once they were taken away by Hercules, the strong hero who performed many wonderful labors, but they were afterwards restored to the careful hands of the maidens.
Many heroes heard of the beautiful land, Hesperia, and of the wonderful apples growing there, and sailed westward to find them. Some people think that the golden apples were really the oranges of Spain, a rich and famous country west of Greece.
Sculpture of Juno, one hand raisedNational Museum, Naples.Juno.
National Museum, Naples.
Juno.
Cleon hath ten thousand acres,Ne’er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace.In a cottage I;Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny I:Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I;Wealth surrounded, care environed,Cleon fears to die;Death may come—he’ll find me ready,Happier man am I.Cleon sees no charms in Nature,In a daisy I;Cleon hears no anthems ringing’Twixt the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener I:State for state, with all attendants—Who would change? Not I.—Charles Mackay.
Cleon hath ten thousand acres,Ne’er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace.In a cottage I;Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny I:Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I;Wealth surrounded, care environed,Cleon fears to die;Death may come—he’ll find me ready,Happier man am I.Cleon sees no charms in Nature,In a daisy I;Cleon hears no anthems ringing’Twixt the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener I:State for state, with all attendants—Who would change? Not I.—Charles Mackay.
Cleon hath ten thousand acres,Ne’er a one have I;Cleon dwelleth in a palace.In a cottage I;Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,Not a penny I:Yet the poorer of the twain isCleon, and not I.
Cleon is a slave to grandeur,Free as thought am I;Cleon fees a score of doctors,Need of none have I;Wealth surrounded, care environed,Cleon fears to die;Death may come—he’ll find me ready,Happier man am I.
Cleon sees no charms in Nature,In a daisy I;Cleon hears no anthems ringing’Twixt the sea and sky;Nature sings to me forever,Earnest listener I:State for state, with all attendants—Who would change? Not I.
Vulcan was always trying his skill, and he made many wonderful and beautiful things. One day he invited the gods to see his latest creation. Here stood a beautiful figure, resembling Venus in beauty. The gods were delighted with his work, and decided each to bestow upon the woman some excellent gift.
Minerva gave skill in handicraft, Mercury gave wit in conversation, Venus the power to please, the Graces added charm to her beauty, and Jupiter at last gave life and immortality. Because of these many gifts, she was named Pandora, a Greek word meaning “all gifts.”
The gods sent Pandora to Prometheus and Epimetheus, the brothers who loved mankind. Prometheus would not receive the lovely maiden, for he knew the gods did not love him and he feared their gifts. But Epimetheus welcomed her to his home.
For some time they lived happily, but trouble came to them because of Pandora’s curiosity. In the palace of Epimetheus was a quaintly carved box. Pandora had wondered what was in it, for Epimetheus did not know.
“The winged messenger brought it,” he told her, “and said that it contained a secret of the immortal gods. We must not open it, dear Pandora, for mortals should not know the secrets of the immortals.”
But Pandora was not to be satisfied. Day after day the longing grew upon her to open the box. She believed it contained beautiful garments or ornaments, and she said to herself: “Why should the gods leave the box here, if we must not open it? There are many places where they could have hidden it.” So she persuaded herself that she would not be doing wrong to open the box, although a little voice seemed to warn her not to disobey.
Slowly she approached the box. The figures upon it seemed to smile upon her. She thought she would open it just a little and peep in. Poor Pandora! The moment she lifted the cover, all the sorrow and sickness and sin which had been shut up in this wonderful box, flew out and winged their way all over the earth.
Pandora was overcome with remorse and let the cover fall. In the midst of her grief, she heard a sweet voice say, “Pandora, dear Pandora, do not grieve so; let me out to comfort you.”
“No, indeed,” replied Pandora; “too many of your sisters and brothers have I let out already.”
But the voice persisted, and was so kind and gentle that at last Pandora yielded, and Hope came forth to comfort and help man to endure all the evils of this life. In sickness or sorrow, hope points to happier to-morrows, and when we have done wrong and repent, hope encourages us to do what we know is right.
A group of people in woodlandJ. B. C. Corot (1796-1878).A Landscape.
J. B. C. Corot (1796-1878).
A Landscape.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,When our mother nature laughs around;When even the deep blue heavens look glad,And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?There are notes of joy from the hangbird and wren,And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den,And the wilding bee hums merrily by.The clouds are at play in the azure spaceAnd their shadows at play on the bright green vale;And here they stretch to the frolic chase,And there they roll on the easy gale.There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree,There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles,On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,On the leaping waters and gay young isles;Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away.—William Cullen Bryant.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,When our mother nature laughs around;When even the deep blue heavens look glad,And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?There are notes of joy from the hangbird and wren,And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den,And the wilding bee hums merrily by.The clouds are at play in the azure spaceAnd their shadows at play on the bright green vale;And here they stretch to the frolic chase,And there they roll on the easy gale.There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree,There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles,On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,On the leaping waters and gay young isles;Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away.—William Cullen Bryant.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,When our mother nature laughs around;When even the deep blue heavens look glad,And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hangbird and wren,And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;The ground squirrel gayly chirps by his den,And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure spaceAnd their shadows at play on the bright green vale;And here they stretch to the frolic chase,And there they roll on the easy gale.
There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree,There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles,On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,On the leaping waters and gay young isles;Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away.