his teeth touched something hard, harder than bone. Had the cook put stones in his food? It was nothing of the kind. Alas! his very food, as soon as it touched his lips, turned to solid gold.

His heart sank within him, while the meat before him mocked his hunger. Then, was the richest king in the world to starve? A horrible fear came upon him as he poured out drink into a golden cup and the cup was filled with gold. He sat in despair.

What was he to do? Of what use was all this gold, if he could not buy a crust of bread or a sip of water? The poorest plowman would now be richer than the king. Poor Midas wandered about his golden palace, the dust becoming gold under his feet, until he was all of a fever with thirst, and weak and sick with hunger.

At last, in his despair, he set out to find the god of the cornfields and vineyards again, and beg him to take back the gift of gold. By and by, when nearly starved, he found the god, who cried to him, “Ha! Midas, are you not content yet? Do you want more gold?"

"Gold!" cried Midas. "I hate the horrible word. I am starving. Make me the poorest man in the world, for I have learned that a mountain of gold is not worth a drop of dew."

"I will take back my gift," said the god. "Go," said he, "to the river Pactolus,1 trace the stream to its fountain head; there plunge in your head and body, and wash away your fault and its punishment."

99

Midas ran to the river Pactolus, near by. He 1 Pronounced pǎk-tō'lus.

threw off his golden clothes and hurried, barefoot, over the sands of the river, and the sand, wherever his naked feet touched it, turned to gold.

When he came from the water the terrible power of the golden touch had left him. Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country, and became a worshiper of Pan, the god of the fields.

NOTES

1. King Midas. Look up other legends regarding King Midas.

2. Pactolus. A fabulous river of Greek mythology.

3. Pan. Pan was the god of the woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds. He dwelt in caves, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused himself with the chase. He was so greatly feared in the woods at night and inspired such fright and terror that we get our word pan-ic from his name.

4. Look up the following words and expressions: vineyards, furnished, cloth-of-gold, horrible fear, golden palace, fever, folly, fountain head, punishment, terrible power.

EXERCISES

1. What kindness did King Midas extend to the old schoolmaster?

2. In return what reward was given him?

3. Why did the god regret the choice of King Midas?

4. Why was King Midas now so very happy?

5. What use did he at once make of this wonderful gift?

6. When did he first begin to regret that he possessed this gift?

7. Explain "The meat before him mocked his hunger.”

8. Why should he sit in despair?

9. How could the poorest plowman be richer than King Midas? 10. What remedy did he seek for his distress?

11. What questions did the god Bacchus ask him?

12. What request did King Midas now make of the god?

13. Explain "A mountain of gold is not worth a drop of dew."

14. How did the god make it possible for Midas to give back the gift?

15. What great lesson had King Midas learned?

16. If this story is a symbol of life what great truth is in it for all?

The Golden Fleece.

ADDITIONAL READINGS

HAWTHORNE: The Golden Touch. Snow-Image.

GAYLEY: Classic Myths, p. 157. See Index.

SMEDLEY: The Discovery.

LADY CAREW: True Greatness.

KIPLING: The Peace of Dives.

BURNS: A Man's a Man For A' That.

JANE TAYLOR: Contented John.

POE: The Gold Bug.

HANS ANDERSEN: The Bronze Boar. The Red Shoes.

EMILY DICKINSON: Real Riches.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON: Ballad of the Gold Country.

"T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

"Tis the last rose of Summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud, is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

IT.

HOME, SWEET HOME

T remained for an American who died in foreign lands to sing us our choicest home song. John Howard Payne was born in New York in 1791, and spent his childhood in a humble home in East Hampton, Long Island. At the age of thirteen, while clerk in a New York mercantile house, he secretly edited The Thespian Mirror. For a while he attended Union College, but the bankruptcy of his father caused the young man to quit college and to seek to support himself as an actor. At eighteen, he played the part of Young Norval in "Douglas" in the Park Theatre, New York, and later appeared in Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore.

In 1813, he sailed for England where he appeared in the Drury Lane Theatre, London, successively as actor, manager, and playwright. He proved a very unsuccessful business manager, and hence suffered many financial embarrassments. In 1832, he returned to America. Ten years later, he was appointed as American Consul at Tunis, was recalled in 1845, and reappointed in 1851. He died in Tunis April 9, 1852, and was buried there in the cemetery of St. George. It was not until 1883 that his remains

were at last brought to America, where they were finally interred in Washington with due ceremony, and with proper recognition of the wandering actor's home song.

The song "Home, Sweet Home," is a solo in Payne's Opera of Clari, or the Maid of Milan, which was first produced in Covent Garden Theatre in May, 1823. The music was adapted by Henry R. Bishop from an old melody which Payne had heard in Italy. The publisher of the song cleared two thousand guineas the first year, but Payne himself received very little of the profit.

Men everywhere have loved this exquisite home song. The soldier on the battlefield, the sailor on the trackless sea, and the lonely traveler with tear-dimmed eyes, have heard with thrills of delight the sweet strains of "Home, Sweet Home.' We prize the song more highly because the author himself was a wanderer with no home he could call his own. His very loneliness, by way of contrast, seems to give this ideal home picture its truth and makes it touch deeply the hearts of men.

HOME, SWEET HOME

'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roàm, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.