Transcriber's Note

The chapter 'PERSONS AND PLACES MENTIONED' contains some less commonly used characters to indicate pronunciation, including the following:

upper and lower case c with hyphen through, C̵ and c̵
s with uptack below, s̝
y with breve above, y̆
y with macron above, ȳ
a with dot above, ȧ

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’ROUND THE YEAR IN
MYTH AND SONG

BY
FLORENCE HOLBROOK

NEW YORK

CINCINNATI

CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

Copyright, 1897, by
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
——
HOL. MYTH AND SONG.
W. P. II

TO
MRS. ELLA FLAGG YOUNG
A FRIEND
WHOSE ZEAL AND
ABILITY IN THE CAUSE OF
EDUCATION ARE KNOWN TO THOUSANDS
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY ONE OF THE MANY TO WHOM
HER WORDS HAVE BEEN
AN INCENTIVE AND
HER WORK AN
INSPIRATION

PREFACE.

This book is intended for use in all grades of elementary schools, the method of presentation varying with the age of the pupils. It has been welcomed even by pupils in higher schools, because easily familiarizing them with myths and characters that figure so largely in the literary texts with which they are to deal.

In the first and second grades the teachers should read or tell some of the stories to the pupils, thus satisfying the demand of children for a story, and preparing the way for an appreciation of literature. The pupils should retell the stories, thus enriching their vocabulary and learning to express thought clearly, easily, consecutively, and confidently,—a power so much needed and so valuable to citizens of a republic.

Some of the poems, as “Daybreak,” “The Moss Rose,” “Forget-me-not,” “Sweet and Low,” “The Child’s World,” etc., should be memorized. If this work has been well done in these grades, the pupils of third and fourth grades will enjoy reading the stories, continuing the reciting of myth and poem. The pictures that so well illustrate the myths should be studied and described. In these classes and in the grammar grades the stories should be written and the poems reproduced accurately, serving as valuable lessons in form, in spelling, punctuation, and capitalization. The reproduction of the myth and poem both orally and in written papers is an exercise whose value cannot be overestimated.

While the myths are valuable in themselves as stories which appeal to and which nourish the imagination, and as aids to expression in oral and written language, they are also very helpful, when presented early, to the understanding of references with which our literature is filled, and make the reading of the best in literature more of a delight because of this knowledge. It is important that these myths be given to children who enjoy the world of fairy tale and myth,—children who in their imagination drive the car of Apollo with the bold Phaëthon, and see with Narcissus the nymph smiling in the brook.

The poems and pictures in the book serve to illustrate the debt both poets and artists owe to the fancies of the beauty-loving Greeks, the children of our race. With imagination and memory nourished and stored with stories that have been part of men’s literary possessions for centuries, and which have been embodied in all the arts, the love for literature which is permanent and valuable will leave no room for the worthless and transitory.

Acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Company for selections from Holmes, Whittier, and Longfellow; to Messrs. D. Appleton & Company for selections from Bryant; to Messrs. A. C. McClurg & Company for the poem, “Rainbow Fairies,” from Tomlin’s “Child’s Garden of Song”; and to Mr. John Burroughs for permission to use his poem, “Waiting.”

CONTENTS.

PERSONS AND PLACES MENTIONED.

Ä´bou bĕn Äd´hem (ä´bōō)
A c̵hĭl´lēs̝
A dō´nis
Æ ō´li a
Æ ō´li an Īs´lands̝
Æ´o lus
A pŏl´lo
Aq´ui lo (ăk´wi lo)
A răc̵h´ne
A ri´on
Ăth´ens̝
Au rō´ra

Bō´re as

Cæ´s̝ar Au gŭs´tus
C̵al lï´o pe
Cẽr´be rus
Cē´rēs̝
C̵hā´ron
C̵lē´on
C̵lī´o
C̵lȳ´tie
C̵ŏl i sē´um
C̵ŏr´inth
C̵ō´rus
C̵ū´pid
Cȳ´c̵lops
Cy̆g´nus
Cy̆n´thi a

Dăph´ne
Di ā´na
Drȳ´ads̝

Ec̵h´o
En dy̆m´i on
Ep i mē´the us
Ĕr´a to
Ē´ris
Ĕt´na
Eu rō´pa
Eū´rus
Eu ry̆d´i ce
Eu tẽr´pe

Flō´ra
Flŏr´ence
Frĭg´ga

Găn y mē´de

Hā´dēs̝
Hē´be
He li´a dēs̝
Hẽr´c̵u lēs̝
Hẽr´mēs̝
Hes pē´ri a
Hes pĕr´i dēs̝
Hēs´pe rus
Hi a wä´tha
Hō´mer

Ī´ris
Ĭt´a ly
Ĭth´a c̵a
Ī´da

Jā´nus
Jōve
Jūli us Cæ´s̝ar
Jū´no
Jū´pi ter

Kä´be yun
Ka bi bon ŏk´ka

La tō´na
Lē´da
Lĭp´ar i Īs´lands̝
Louvre (lōōvr)

Mā´i a
Märs̝
Mē´los
Mel pŏm´e ne
Mĕm´non
Mẽr´cu ry
Mĭ nẽr´va
Mud je kēē´wis

Nā´iads̝ (yādz)
Nar cĭs´sus
Nĕp´tūne
Nē´re ids̝
Nĭ´o be
No kō´mis
Nō´tus

O ce ăn´ids̝ (she)
Oc tā´vi us Cæs̝ar
Ō´din
O ly̆m´pus
Ō´re ads̝
O rī´on
Ôr´phe us

Păl´las A thē´ne
Pan dō´ra
Păr´is
Par năs´sus
Pär´the non
Per i ăn´der
Per sĕph´o ne
Phā´ë thon
Phœ´bus (fē)
Pi ĕr´ i dēs̝
Pī´e rus
Plē´ia dēs̝ (yȧ)
Plū´to
Pō
Pol y hy̆m´ni a
Po mō´na
Pro mē´the us
Psȳ´c̵he (sȳ´)

Rōme

Sæ´ter
Sha won dä´see
Sĭb´y̆ls
Sĭc´i ly
Sĭ´rens̝
Sty̆x

Ta rĕn´tum
Tẽrp sĭc̵h´o re
Tha lĭ´a
Thēbes̝
Thē´tis
Thôr
Ti thō´nus
Tiw (tū)
Tri´tons̝
Troy

U ly̆s´sĕs̝
U rā´ni a

Val´en tīne
Vē´nus
Vẽr´gil
Vĕs´ta
Vŭl´c̵an

Wa bäs´so
Wä´bun
Wä´bun-An´nung
Wō´den

Zĕph´y̆ rus (zĕf´)

E. Semenowsky (modern).

Spring.

’ROUND THE YEAR.

O beautiful world of green!
When bluebirds carol clear,
And rills outleap,
And new buds peep,
And the soft sky seems more near;
With billowy green and leaves,—what then?
How soon we greet the red again!

E. Semenowsky (modern).

Summer.

O radiant world of red!
When roses blush so fair,
And winds blow sweet,
And lambkins bleat,
And the bees hum here and there;
With thrill of bobolinks,—ah, then,
Before we know, the gold again!

E. Semenowsky (modern).

Autumn.

O beautiful world of gold!
When waving grain is ripe,
And apples beam
Through the hazy gleam,
And quails on the fence rails pipe;
With pattering nuts and winds,—why then,
How swiftly falls the white again!

E. Semenowsky (modern).

Winter.

O wonderful world of white!
When trees are hung with lace,
And the rough winds chide,
And snowflakes hide
Each bleak unsheltered place;
When birds and brooks are dumb,—what then?
O, round we go to the green again!

A. B. Thorwaldsen (1770-1844).

Spring.

THE SEASONS.

The earth receives light from the sun, and completes its course through the heavens once a year. Each year brings Spring with her garlands of flowers, Summer—golden Summer—with her sheaves of sunlit grain, Autumn with the purple grape, and Winter clad in frost and snow.

A. B. Thorwaldsen.

Summer.

Every year there is the same order of the seasons. Therefore man knows when to plant the tiny seeds, when the harvests and fruits will ripen, and what provision to make for the cold but merry winter.

A. B. Thorwaldsen.

Autumn.

Just as little children, tired with play, and men who work all day, must have the night for sleep and rest, so Mother Earth, who plays and works so gaily from March to October, must have the winter season for rest. Then she covers herself with a mantle of snow, and sings a sleepy lullaby song.

Each of the seasons has three months to attend her.

A. B. Thorwaldsen.

Winter.

Spring, clad in dainty green, has March with cleansing winds, changeable April with sunshine and rain, and tender May with the fragrant flowers.

Summer, in her golden dress, has June, July, and August to attend her.

Autumn, with September, October, and November, comes with her hands filled with baskets of fruit.

Winter has December, January, and February to cover the earth with snow, to freeze the rivers, and to paint curious pictures upon the windowpanes.

Can you compare the passing of the year and the life of man? Childhood, the springtime of life, is the time for play and dance and merry song, the time to make the body supple and strong. When the body is strong and the mind has been trained, comes the summer time of work—hard work in all the fields of labor, that the harvest may not fail. In the autumn of life, when the labor of the summer ripens into fruit, how pleasant to reap the reward of work! Then slowly come the snowy hair and the winter of life, when we sit by the fire and tell the story of our battles, our struggles, our defeats, and our victories.

Each season of the year has its pleasures and its tasks, and so has each season of life. A youth of cheerful labor and study brings its own reward of a well-prepared and happy adult life. Then we can repeat Browning’s cheering words,—

“Grow old along with me!
The best of life is yet to be,
The last for which the first is made.”

WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The harp at Nature’s advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.

The green earth sends her incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar curtains of the hills
Are sunset’s purple air.

The blue sky is the temple’s arch,
Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer.

HOW THE MYTHS AROSE.

The Greeks lived much in the open air, and dearly loved the trees, the flowers, the birds, the sea and sky.

They watched the clouds floating in the beautiful azure dome, sometimes in long lines like soldiers, sometimes looking like great curly white feathers, and sometimes piled high like mountains of snow.

They saw the sun rise, coloring the clouds and awakening all things on the earth; and they watched him sink in the western sky, flooding the heavens with brilliant hues.

In the quiet night, they saw the lovely stars come, one by one at first, and then in such numbers that their eyes were dazzled, and they thought of God and of the beauty of His works.

“The million-handed sculptor molds
Quaintest bud and blossom folds;
The million-handed painter pours
Opal hues and purple dye;
Azaleas flush the inland floor,
And the tints of heaven reply.”

They listened to the carols of the birds and they believed that the brooks, the trees, and the flowers could talk to men.

The poets dreamed and sang about the spirits which inhabited all the forms of nature. All the people loved these fancies, and repeated the stories again and again. These stories,—these beautiful fancies about nature, which to the Greeks seemed true,—we call myths, or fairy tales.

“The beauty of the sea and sky,
The airy flight of birds on high,
The lovely flowers, whose perfume rare
So softly fills the summer air;
The rainbow’s glow, the shimmering rain
When springtime buds peep out again,
The golden glory of the sun
The fields of ripening grain upon,
The winds that sigh harmoniously,
The tempest’s wrath o’er land and sea,
The purple haze of mountains far,
Or snowy crest, whereon the star
Of night shines soft and silvery:—
These joys that nature offers thee,
Wilt thou not know; wilt thou not feel
What God and thine own heart reveal?”

THE MONTHS.—WINTER.

In addition to its four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—the year is divided into twelve months. Long ago, there were but ten months, and the first month was March. But when January and February were added, the year had twelve months, and January, the second month of the winter season, is now called the first month of the year.

“Month” and “moon” come from a word which means “to measure.” It takes the earth three hundred and sixty-five days, or a year, to revolve around the sun. The moon revolves around the earth about twelve times in one year; so the moon is the measurer of the year, and the twelve periods we call months.

From Janus, a Roman god, comes the name of the first month of the year. Janus is the two-headed god. A temple of this divinity was placed at the city gate of Rome. His statue had one face looking toward the city and one beyond the gate. The month of January stands at the gateway of the year, with one face looking toward the past and one toward the future.

Our second month, February, receives its name from a Latin word which means “to purify,” for in this month the people used to purify their homes and offer sacrifices to the gods, who love order and cleanliness.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I come! I come! ye have called me long;
I come o’er the mountains, with light and song!
Ye may trace my steps o’er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have sent through the wood paths a glowing sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night bird’s lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan’s wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
Where the dark fir branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.

F. A. Kaulbach (modern).

Spring.

THE MONTHS.—SPRING.

The name of the famous Mars, god of war, was given to the first month of spring. This month, formerly the first of the year, is now the third. Mars is fond of storm and strife, and his name is very appropriate for this windy, stormy month. In March the sun turns back in his journey among the stars, and begins to come north again. The days grow longer in our part of the world, and we know that summer is coming.

In April the snows melt, the little brooks awake and chatter over their pebbly beds, the birds return to gladden us with their songs, and the tiny leaves peep out of their winter nests. The earth seems to open to receive the moist rains and the warm winds. April, the beautiful name given to this second month of spring, comes from a Latin word meaning “to open.”

The lovely month of May is a great favorite with the poets. Many of them have written charming poems in her honor. Maia, in whose honor this month was named, is the mother of Mercury, the winged messenger of the gods. The Romans held this god in great honor, and gave the name of his mother to the loveliest of the months.

ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow’ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

A. H. Dieffenbach (modern).

May.

THE CHILD’S WISH IN JUNE.

Mother, mother, the winds are at play;
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.

See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.

Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,
And the flies go about him, one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.

There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,
But very lazily flieth he;
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy. But, mother dear,
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, O I wish I were yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Book and work I no more should see,
And I’d come and float, dear mother, o’er thee.

THE MONTHS.—SUMMER.

June, the month of roses, is named in honor of the stately Juno, queen of the gods. Juno is the goddess of happy marriages, and June is the favorite month for weddings.

July is named in honor of Julius Cæsar, the greatest of the Romans in the art of war. In peace, also, he advanced the condition of the people, and he was a great statesman and writer. He it was who reformed the calendar, and so it is just that his name should be given to one of the months.

Octavius Cæsar was the nephew and heir of Julius Cæsar, the great commander. After conquering his enemies, he became the master of Rome and was named Emperor by the Roman Senate. He ruled the empire wisely and well, and received the title Augustus, which means “worthy of reverence.” From him the eighth month receives its name—August.

Cæsar Augustus was the friend of the poets and orators who lived during his reign. So many beautiful poems were written at that time, and all the arts so flourished, that the reign of Augustus has been called “The Golden Age.”

AUTUMN.

When leaves grow sear, all things take somber hue;
The wild winds waltz no more the woodside through,
And all the faded grass is wet with dew.

The forest’s cheeks are crimsoned o’er with shame,
The cynic frost enlaces every lane,
The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame.

The ripened nuts drop downward day by day,
Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay,
And bandit squirrels smuggle them away.

Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees,
And, as her rose sails catch the amorous breeze,
Lo! bare, brown Autumn trembles to her knees.

The stealthy nights encroach upon the days,
The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze,
And all her paths are lost in crystal maze.

With blooms full-sapped again will smile the land,
The Fall is but the folding of His hand,
Anon with fuller glories to expand.

So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly,
And all loved things that vanish or that die
Return to us in some sweet by and by.

THE MONTHS.—AUTUMN.

The months of September, October, November, and December are named from Latin words that mean “seven,” “eight,” “nine,” and “ten.”

When the beginning of the year was placed in March, these months were named from their position the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth months. When the first day of January was made the first day of the year, these months became the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth months, but their names were not changed. December is, of course, the first month of winter.

Each year has three hundred and sixty-five days, except leap year, which comes once in four years. In leap years there are three hundred and sixty-six days, the extra day being added to the month of February.

The days are not evenly divided among the twelve months, but, as the old rhyme says,—

“Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting February alone,
Which hath but twenty-eight, in fine,
Till leap year gives it twenty-nine.”

Blashfield (modern).

The New-year Bells.

THE OLD YEAR.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

A. H. Waterlow (modern).

A May Scene.

THE HOLIDAYS OF THE YEAR.

When the New Year comes, we all hold out our hands to the welcome guest, and are glad to see his young and smiling face. So we have made the first day of January a holiday, that friends may wish one another a “Happy New Year.”

February has many days that are dear to us. The birthdays of our noble presidents, Lincoln and Washington, are always celebrated with honor for their greatness and rejoicings for our country’s prosperity. Longfellow and Lowell, two of our greatest poets, are also remembered. St. Valentine’s Day is a festival welcome to children, and to all who love to see young people gay and happy.

In March we have no holiday.

In many of our states a very interesting holiday has been given to April. It is called “Arbor Day,” for on this day trees are planted. Men have always felt a reverence for trees, and have believed that

“The groves were God’s first temples.”

The Greeks gave a personality to trees, and the Druids worshiped the strong and noble oak. So we are setting aside a day when all the people shall make holiday, and plant trees whose shade shall refresh and whose fruit shall nourish us. This is a beautiful holiday, and one full of meaning. Our poet Bryant says,—

“What plant we in this apple tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May wind’s restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple tree.”

May brings with her one of the most sacred and beautiful days of all the year. On Memorial, or Decoration, Day we cover with flowers the graves of those who died to preserve the nation.

In England and in Sweden, May Day is given up to dance and song and flower shows. This festival began in honor of Odin, the old Norse god of the sun.

June has no day that is remembered as a universal holiday. But in July we find the greatest day of the year—the Fourth of July, Independence Day. Every child knows that on this day our nation was born. The flags, the drums, the trumpets, the cannon,—all awaken in the breast of every American a thrill of love and pride that will never pass away.

Prescott Davies (modern).

The Christ Child.

August is passed by; but on the first Monday in September comes Labor Day. This has been [!-- original location of illustration --] celebrated for only a few years, but the meaning of the holiday lies deep in the minds and hearts of men who realize that labor is man’s greatest blessing and hope.

Thanksgiving Day, generally the last Thursday in November, is sacred to the memory of our honored ancestors, who bravely and nobly endured the cold and want of that first New England winter, confident that the God whom they trusted and served would not forget them.

“Aye, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found,—
Freedom to worship God!”

December has the children’s great festal day,—the blessed Christmas, when the lessons of Christ’s life blossom into deeds, and a loving spirit seems to spread over all the land. The carols, the Christmas trees, the merry bells, make the heart gay, and all the air resounds with Christmas glee. We read the Christmas stories, sing the old songs, send loving greetings to absent friends, and rejoice with the happy children, for “of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

THE DAYS OF THE WEEK.

In the southern countries of Europe, the days of the week were named after the gods of the Greeks and Romans. But in our country, and in some of the countries of northern Europe, the gods of the North have given their names to the days.

Sunday and Monday received their names from the sun and the moon—the radiant lamps that light the earth by day and by night.

Tiw is the god of honorable war, the son of Odin and Frigga, the earth mother. His emblem is the sword, and in olden days the people did him great homage. Tuesday, the third day of the week, was named in his honor.

Wednesday was called Woden’s day, in honor of Woden, or Odin, the king of the gods. He was often called the All Father.

Thor, the son of Odin, is one of the twelve great gods of northern mythology. “Whenever he throws his wonderful hammer,” they used to say, “the noise of thunder is heard through the heavens. He is the only god who cannot cross from earth to heaven upon the rainbow, for he is so heavy and powerful that the gods fear it will break under his weight.” Thursday was sacred to Thor.

Thor.

“I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!”

Friday was the day sacred to Frigga, queen of the gods.

Saturday received its name from Sæter, god of the harvest.

“One poor day!—
Remember whose, and not how short it is!
It is God’s day, it is Columbus’s.
A lavish day! One day, with life and heart,
Is more than time enough to find a world.”

“No man is born into the world whose work
Is not born with him. There is always work,
And tools to work withal, for those who will;
And blesséd are the horny hands of toil!
The busy world shoves angrily aside
The man who stands with arms akimbo set,
Until occasion tells him what to do;
And he who waits to have his task marked out
Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.”

ODE.

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator’s power display;
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine!”

Moonlight on the Ocean.

CERES.

All through the warm days of July and August, the grain ripens in the rays of the sun, and in September the fields are yellow with nodding heads of golden grain. Ceres, the earth mother, has been driving north and south, east and west.

Two beautiful maidens always attend her,—Flora, with garlands of roses, who cares for the lovely flowers, and Pomona, who ripens the fruits for man to eat.

As Ceres passes, the fields and woods gleam with color and beauty, and all the voices of nature join man’s in hymns of thanksgiving for her bounty. The old Greeks tell us, that it is she who taught men how to cultivate the fields; how to prepare the soil for the seed, when to plant the many grains and fruits, and how to care for the young and tender plants.

In autumn, after the work of spring and summer, she rejoices in the bounteous harvests, in the vineyards filled with purple grapes. Great golden pumpkins, like huge apples, lie basking in Apollo’s rays; the purple aster and the golden-rod add color to the landscape. Ceres is glad at heart. She is happy in the results of her labor and in the presence of her lovely daughter, Persephone. But when Persephone leaves her mother, Ceres is sad, and winter, cold and drear, settles over the earth.

Vatican, Rome.

Ceres.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

CERES AND PERSEPHONE.

You will wonder why Persephone is not always with her mother. This is the story the Greeks tell.

As Ceres takes care of the ripening grains and fruits all over the earth, it is necessary for her to visit every country of the world. One day she was seated in her chariot drawn by those wonderful winged dragons, ready to set forth on her travels. She kissed her little daughter, and warned her not to go far from home. She had never before felt so anxious about leaving her little girl, but she had to go.

Persephone threw a loving kiss to her fond mother, and then went to the shore of the sea to play with the sea nymphs. They are graceful, slender girls, with sea-green hair and eyes like opals. They are charming playmates, but cannot come out of the water. Persephone gathered flowers for them, and was obedient to her mother’s command.

But Pluto, the god of the palaces of gold and silver under the earth, looking out from one of the caverns, saw the pretty child, and wanted to carry her away to his home. So he caused a wonderful flower, all crimson and gold, to charm Persephone farther away. She stooped to pick it; and lo! it came up by the roots, a [!-- original location of illustration --] deep cavern yawned, and the chariot of King Pluto appeared.

The driver, who was King Pluto himself, caught the frightened Persephone in his arms. Whipping his coal-black steeds, he hurried away with her to his home in Hades.

L. Munthe (modern).

A Winter Scene.

ARBUTUS ASLEEP.

Arbutus lies beneath the snows,
While winter waits her brief repose,
And says, “No fairer flower grows!”

Of sunny April days she dreams,
Of robins’ notes and murmuring streams,
And smiling in her sleep she seems.

She thinks her rosy buds expand
Beneath the touch of childhood’s hand,
And beauty breathes throughout the land.

The arching elders bending o’er
The silent river’s sandy shore,
Their golden tresses trim once more.

The pussy willows in their play
Their varnished caps have flung away,
And hung their furs on every spray.

The toads their cheery music chant,
The squirrel seeks his summer haunt,
And life revives in every plant.

“I must awake! I hear the bee!
The butterfly I long to see!
The buds are bursting on the tree!”

Ah! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear;
The wild winds howl about thee here
The dirges of the dying year!

Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet;
In sweeter sleep these pains forget;
Thy merry morning comes not yet!

THE SEARCH OF CERES.

When Ceres returned and could not find her little girl, she was frantic. Over the whole earth she drove her chariot, calling upon all things to help her in her search—but in vain!

Then she became so sad that she refused to allow the earth to produce any food for man or beast. The flowers and trees and harvests drooped and faded. In vain did gods and men plead with her. She would not be comforted.

At last Jupiter sent the swift-flying Mercury, messenger of the gods, to Pluto, commanding him to release Persephone. When Ceres saw her daughter restored to her, what joy was hers! Yet she feared one thing.

“Have you eaten anything in Pluto’s kingdom, my child?” was her anxious question.

“Yes, dear mother,” Persephone replied, “six pomegranate seeds.”

“Alas! then you must remain with Pluto six months of every year,” said the sad Ceres.

Thus it is that for six months Ceres and Persephone are together, the earth is covered with the blessed gifts of Ceres, and it is summer over the land. But when they are separated, the mother grieves, and winter is king.

Nonnenbruch (modern).

Copyright, 1895, by Photographische Gesellschaft.

Waiting.

WAITING.

Serene I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more ’gainst time or fate
For lo, my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays;
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark away
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And gather up its fruits of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs from yonder height.
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky,
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high
Can keep my own away from me.

Guido Reni (1575-1642).

The Aurora.

APOLLO.

The palace of the sun is far away in the east. The walls are of silver, the ceilings of carved ivory, and the pillars of gold shining with many jewels.

Phœbus Apollo, in a robe of royal purple, sits upon a golden throne, and the bright rays shining from his golden hair light up the palace and dazzle the eyes. On either hand stand the Day, the Month, the Year, and the rosy Hours, who attend him in his daily course through the heavens.

When his beautiful twin sister, Diana, the queen of the night, has finished her course through the deep blue sky, and all the stars are gone, Aurora, the dawn, opens the silvery eastern bars and shows a path covered with roses. Beautiful, rosy boys hold torches to light up the path, and to tell the people of the earth that the sun god is coming. The agile Hours quickly harness the impatient horses, Apollo mounts his chariot, takes the reins, and away they gallop, delighted with their task.

The wind arises from the sea, and wafts the clouds along; the birds stir in the trees, and begin their sweet morning song; the leaves rustle, and the flowers raise their perfumed heads and say “good morning!” The little children open their eyes with a laugh and shout, for another day of play. All the world is awake to give thanks for the glorious sunlight!

HARK! HARK! THE LARK.