This page contains affiliate links. As Amazon Associates we earn from qualifying purchases.
Language:
Form:
Genre:
Published:
  • 1922
Edition:
Tags:
FREE Audible 30 days

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat, left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”–the dust-brown ranks stood fast. “Fire!”–out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill. And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of freedom and union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

BEOWULF AND GRENDEL

NOTE.–The oldest poem in the English language is Beowulf, which covers some six thousand lines. When it was written is not exactly known, but the original is still in existence in the British Museum. It was written in Anglo-Saxon and could not be read and understood by us to-day. It has, however, been translated and turned into modern English, and its quaintness of phrasing gives it a very peculiar charm of its own.

An old Anglo-Saxon poem bears little resemblance to ours. There is no rhyme, and the lines are not equal in length, and there does not seem to be much music in it. One of its poetic characteristics is alliteration; that is, several words in the same line begin with the same or similar sounds. It is a noble old poem, however, and of great interest, for it shows us what the old Saxon gleemen sang at their feasts for the entertainment of their guests, as they sat about the blazing fires in the huge, rude halls, drinking their mead.

The chief incident in the poem is Beowulf’s battle with Grendel, and a description of that, taken indirectly from the poem, is the story that follows. After this combat Beowulf returned to his home, in time was made king, and after a stormy life died from wounds received in combat with a terrible fire fiend.

When the history of the Danes begins they had no kings and suffered much at the hands of their neighbors. Then by way of the sea, from some unknown land, came Scef, who subdued the neighboring tribes and established the Danish throne on a firm foundation. His son and his son’s son followed him, but the latter sailed away as his grandfather had come, and the race of ruler gods was ended.

Left to themselves, the Danes chose a king who ruled long and well and left his son Hrothgar to make of them a wealthy and prosperous people.

After years of warfare, when the prosperity of Hrothgar was fully established, it came into his mind to build a great hall where he and his warriors and counselors could meet around one common banquet table and where, as they drank their mead, they could discuss means for increasing their power and making better the condition of their peoples. High-arched and beautiful was the great mead-palace, with towering pinnacles and marvelous walls, and the name that he gave to the palace was Heorot, the HART or, as some say, the HEART. When the noble building was finished, Hrothgar’s heart was filled with joy, and he gave to his counselors a noble feast, at which he presented them with rings and ornaments and entertained them with music on the harps and the inspiring songs of the Skalds.

Far away in the marshes, in the dark and solemn land where dwelt the Jotuns, the giants who warred against God’s people, lived the grim and ferocious Grendel, more terrible than any of his brethren. From out of the fastnesses of his gloomy home he saw the fair building of Hrothgar and grew jealous of the Danish king, hating the united people, for peace and harmony were evil in his sight.

The feast was long over, and the thanes and warriors slept in the banquet hall, worn out by their rejoicing, but dreaming only of the peaceful days to follow their long years of warfare. Into the midst of the hall crept Grendel, and seized in his mighty arms full thirty of the sleeping men and carried them away to his noisome home, where he feasted at leisure upon their bodies.

The next morning there was grief and terror among the remaining Danes, for they knew that no human being could have wrought such havoc and that no human power could prevail against the monster who preyed upon them.

The next night Grendel came again and levied his second tribute, and again there was mourning and desolation in the land. Thus for twelve years the monster giant came at intervals and carried away many of the noblest in the kingdom. Then were there empty homes everywhere in the land, and sorrow and suffering came where joy and peace had rested. Strange as it may seem, Hrothgar himself was never touched, though he sat the night long watching his nobles as they slept in the mead-hall, hoping himself to deliver them from the awful power that harassed them. But night after night Grendel came, and while Hrothgar remained unharmed he was equally powerless to stay the ravages of the giant. Hrothgar bowed his head in sorrow and prayed to his gods to send help before all his noble vassals perished.

Far to the westward, among strange people, lived a man, the strongest and greatest of his race, Beowulf by name. To him came the news of Grendel’s deeds and of Hrothgar’s sorrow, and his soul was filled with a fiery ambition to free the Danes. From among his warriors he selected fifteen of the boldest and strongest, and put out to sea in a new ship, pitched within and without, to seek the land of the Danes and to offer his help to Hrothgar. Over the white sea waves dashed the noble vessel, flinging the foam aside from her swanlike prow until before her showed the cliffs and wind-swept mountain sides of Denmark. Giving thanks to God for their prosperous voyage, they landed, donned their heavy armor and marched in silence to the palace Heorot.

Entering the hall with clanking armor they set their brazen shields against the wall, piled their steel-headed spears in a heap by the door, and bowed to Hrothgar, who, bowed with sorrow and years, sat silently among his earls. When Beowulf rose among his warriors he towered high above them, godlike in his glittering armor. Hrothgar looked on him in wonder, but felt that he saw in the mighty man a deliverer sent in answer to his prayer.

Before Hrothgar could recover from his surprise and delight, Beowulf stretched forth his powerful arms and spoke: “Hail, Hrothgar, king of the Danes. Many a time and oft have I fought with the Jotuns, evil and powerful, and every time have I overcome, and now have I come unto the land of the Danes to undertake battle with the fierce Grendel. No human weapon hath power against a Jotun, so here in your mead-hall leave I my weapons all, and empty-handed and alone will I pit my strength against the horrid Grendel. Man to man, strength to strength, will I fight, till victory is mine or death befalleth me.

“If I perish, give my companions my shroud and send it home by them in my new ship across the sea. Let there be no mourning for me, for to every man Fate cometh at last.”

Hrothgar answered, “Noble you are, O Beowulf, and powerful, but terrible indeed is Grendel. Many a time at eventide have my warriors fearlessly vowed to await the coming of Grendel and to fight with him as you propose; but when morning came, the floor of Heorot was deep with their blood, but no other trace of them remained. Before, however, we accept your valiant offer, sit this night at meat, where, by our old and honored custom, we incite each other to heroic deeds and valorous behavior, when night shall come and Grendel claim his prey.”

A royal feast it was that the old king gave that night, and the golden mead flowed from the twisted cups in living streams, while the Skalds sang the valorous deeds of heroic Danes of old.

Then rose Beowulf to speak. “To-night Grendel cometh again, expecting no one to fight him for many a time hath he levied his toll and escaped without harm. Here alone with myself will I keep vigil, and alone will I fight the foul fiend. To-morrow morning the sun will glorify my victory or I shall be a corpse in the dark and noisome home of the ogre.”

The eye of the gray-haired king grew bright again as he listened to the brave words of Beowulf, and from her throne the queen in her bejeweled garments stepped down to Beowulf and presented him the loving-cup with words of gracious encouragement.

“No more shall Grendel feast upon the bodies of royal Danes, for to- night his foul body shall feel the powerful grip of my mighty hands,” said Beowulf.

To their proper resting places in the hall stepped the Danish warriors, one by one, filing in a steady line past the great Beowulf, to whom each gave kindly greeting. Last of all came Hrothgar, and as he passed, he grasped the strong fingers of Beowulf and said, “To your keeping I leave my great hall, Heorot. Never before have I passed the duty on to any man. Be thou brave and valiant, and if victory cometh to thee no reward shall be too great for thy service.”

And so the king departed, and silence fell over Heorot.

Left alone, Beowulf laid aside his iron mail, took off his brazen helmet and ungirded his trusty sword. Then unarmed and unprotected he lay down upon his bed. All about the palace slept, but Beowulf could find no rest upon his couch.

In the dim light of the early morn, forth from the pale mists of the marshes, stalked Grendel, up to the door of the many-windowed Heorot. Fire-strengthened were the iron bands with which the doors were bound, but he tore them away like wisps of straw and walked across the sounding tiles of the many-colored floor. Like strokes of vivid lightning flashed the fire from his eyes, making before him all things as clear as noonday. Beowulf, on his sleepless couch, held his breath as the fierce ogre gloated savagely over the bountiful feast he saw spread before him in the bodies of the sleeping Danes. With moistening lips he trod among the silent braves, and Beowulf saw him choose the strongest and noblest of them all. Quickly the monster stooped, seized the sleeping earl, and with one fierce stroke of his massive jaw, tore open the throat of the warrior and drank his steaming blood. Then he tore the corpse limb from limb and with horrid glee crunched the bones of his victim’s hands.

[Illustration: GRENDEL COULD NOT BREAK THAT GRIP OF STEEL.]

Then spying the sleeping Beowulf he dropped his mangled prey and laid his rough hands on his watchful enemy. Suddenly Beowulf raised himself upon one elbow and fastened his strong grip on the astonished Jotun. Never before had Grendel felt such a grip of steel. He straightened his mighty back and flung the clinging Beowulf toward the door, but never for a moment did the brave champion relax his fierce grip, and the ogre was thrown back into the center of the hall. Together they fell upon the beautiful pavement and rolled about in their mighty struggles till the walls of the palace shook as in a hurricane and the very pinnacles toppled from their secure foundations. The walls of Heorot fell not, but the floor was strewn with broken benches whose gold trappings were torn like paper, while the two struggled on the floor in the wreck of drinking horns and costly vessels from the tables, while over all slopped ale from the mammoth tankards. Backward and forward they struggled, sometimes upon their feet and again upon the floor; but with all his fearsome struggles, Grendel could not break that grip of steel. At last, with one mighty wrench, Grendel tore himself free, leaving in the tightly locked hands of Beowulf his strong right arm and even his shoulder blade, torn raggedly from his body. Roaring with pain from the gaping wound which extended from neck to waist, the ogre fled to the marshes, into whose slimy depths he fell; and there he slowly bled to death. Fair shone the sun on Heorot the next morning when the warriors came from all directions to celebrate the marvelous prowess of Beowulf, who stalked in triumph through the hall with his bloody trophy held on high. Close by the throne of the king he hung Grendel’s shoulder, arm, and hand, where all might see and test the strength of its mighty muscles and the steel-like hardness of its nails, which no human sword of choicest steel could mark or mar. With bursting heart, Hrothgar thanked God for his deliverance and gave credit to Beowulf for his valorous deed. First was the wreck of the savage encounter cleared away, then were the iron bands refastened on the door and the tables spread for a costly feast of general rejoicing. There amid the songs of the Skalds and the shouts of the warriors, the queen poured forth the sacred mead and handed it to Beowulf in the royal cup of massive gold. As the rejoicing grew more general, the king showered gifts upon Beowulf, an ensign and a helm, a breastplate and a sword, each covered with twisted gold and set with precious stones. Eight splendid horses, trapped in costly housings trimmed with golden thread and set with jewels, were led before Beowulf, and their silken bridles were laid within his hand. With her own hand the queen gave him a massive ring of russet gold sparkling with diamonds, the finest in the land.

“May happiness and good fortune attend thee, Beowulf,” she said, “and ever may these well-earned gifts remind thee of those whom thou hast succored from deadly peril; and as the years advance may fame roll in upon thee as roll the billows upon the rocky shores of our beloved kingdom.”

When the feast was over Hrothgar and his queen departed from the hall, and Beowulf retired to the When the feast was over Hrothgar and his queen departed from the hall, and Beowulf retired to the house they had prepared for him. But the warriors remained as was their custom, and, girt in their coats of chained mail, with swords ready at hand, they lay down upon the floor to sleep, prepared to answer on the instant any call their lord should make. Dense darkness closed upon the hall, and the Danes slept peacefully, unaware that danger threatened.

When midnight came, out of the cold waters of the reedy fastnesses in the marsh came Grendel’s mother, fierce and terrible in her wrath, burning to avenge the death of her son. Like Grendel she wrenched the door from its iron fastenings and trod across the figured floor of Heorot. With bitter malice she seized the favorite counselor of Hrothgar and rent his body limb from limb. Then seizing from the wall the arm and shoulder of her son she ran quickly from the hall and hid herself in her noisome lair.

The noise of her savage work aroused the sleeping Danes, and so loud were their cries of anger and dismay that Hrothgar heard, and rushed forth to Heorot, where Beowulf met him.

As soon as Hrothgar heard what had happened he turned to Beowulf and cried, “O, mighty champion of the Danes, yet again has grief and sorrow come upon me, for my favorite war companion and chief counselor has been foully murdered by Grendel’s mother, nor can we tell who next will suffer from the foul fiend’s wrath.

[Illustration: BEOWULF ON HIS NOBLE STEED]

“Scarcely a mile from this place, in the depths of a grove of moss- covered trees, which are hoary with age, and whose interlacing branches shut out the light of the sun, lies a stagnant pool. Around the edges of its foul black water twine the snake-like roots of the trees, and on its loathsome surface at night the magic fires burn dimly. In the midst of the pond, shunned alike by man and beast, lives the wolf-like mother of Grendel. Darest thou to enter its stagnant depths to do battle with the monster and to deliver us from her ravages?”

Straightening his massive form and throwing back his head in fierce determination, Beowulf replied, “To avenge a friend is better than to mourn for him. No man can hasten or delay by a single moment his death hour. What fate awaiteth me I know not, but I dare anything to wreak vengeance on the foul murderer, and in my efforts to bring justice I take no thought of the future.”

Then the king Hrothgar ordered a noble steed with arching neck and tossing mane to be saddled and brought forth for the noble Beowulf to ride. Shield bearers by the score accompanied him as he rode on the narrow bridle path, between those dark-frowning cliffs whose rugged trees dimmed the sun and made the journey seem as though it were in twilight. In such a manner came they to the desolate lake in the gloomy wood.

The sight that met the eyes of Beowulf was enough to chill the blood of any man. On the shore among the tangled roots of the trees crawled hideous poisonous snakes, while on the surface of the water rolled great sea dragons, whose ugly crests were raised in anger and alarm. From the turbid depths of the water, unholy animals of strange and fearful shapes kept coming to the surface and swimming about with threatening mien.

Undaunted by these sickening sights, Beowulf blew a mighty blast upon his terrible war-horn, at the sound of which the noisome animals slunk back to the slimy depths of the dismal pond. Clad in his shirt of iron mail, wearing the hooded helmet that had often protected his head from the savage blows of his enemies, and clasping in his hand the handle of his great knife, Hrunting, whose hardened blade had carried death to many a strong foeman, Beowulf fronted the awful lake.

Thus armed and protected, he plunged into the thickened oily waters, which closed quickly over him, leaving but a few great bubbles to show where he had disappeared. Into the depths of the dark abyss he swam until it seemed as though he were plunging straight into the jaws of death.

As his mighty strength neared exhaustion, Beowulf found the hall at the depth of the abyss, and there saw Grendel’s mother lying in wait for him. With her fierce claws she grappled him and dragged him into her dismal water palace whose dark walls oozed with the slime of ages. Recovering his breath, and fierce at the assault, Beowulf swung his heavy knife and brought it down on the sea wolf’s head. Never before had Hrunting failed him, but now the hard skull of Grendel’s mother turned the biting edge of the forged steel, and the blow twisted the blade as though it were soft wire. Flinging aside his useless knife, Beowulf clutched the sea woman with the mighty grip that had slain her son, and the struggle for mastery began. More than once was Beowulf pushed nigh to exhaustion, but every time he recovered himself and escaped from the deadly grasp of the powerful fiend who strove to take his life. As he grew weaker, Grendel’s mother seized her russet-bladed knife and with a mighty blow drove it straight at the heart of Beowulf. Once again his trusty shirt of mail turned the blade, and by a last convulsive effort he regained his feet.

As he rose from his dangerous position he saw glittering in his sight as it hung in the walls of water, the hilt of a mighty sword, which was made for giants, and which no man on earth but Beowulf could wield. Little he knew of its magic power, but he seized it in both hands, and swinging it about his head in mighty curves, struck full at the head of the monster. Savage was the blow, more mighty than human being ever struck before, and the keen edge of the sword crashed through the brazen mail, cleft the neck of the sea wolf, and felled her dead upon the floor. From her neck spurted hot blood which melted the blade and burned it away as frost wreathes are melted by the sun. In his hand remained only the carven hilt.

On the shore of the dark lake the Danes waited anxiously for the reappearance of Beowulf, and when blood came welling up through the dark waters they felt their champion had met his fate, and returning to Heorot, they sat down to mourn in the great mead-hall.

Then among them strode Beowulf, carrying in one hand the great head of the sea woman and in the other the blistered hilt of the sword, snake- shaped, carven with the legend of its forging. Beowulf related the story of his combat and added, “When I saw that Grendel’s mother was dead I seized her head and swam upward again through the heaving waters, bearing the heavy burden with me; and as I landed on the shore of the lake I saw its waters dry behind me, and bright meadows with beautiful flowers take their place. The trees themselves put on new robes of green, and peace and gladness settled over all. God and my strong right hand prospered me, and here I show the sword with which the giants of old defied the eternal God, The enemies of God are overcome, and here in Heorot may Hrothgar and his counselors dwell in peace.”

The king and his counselors gathered round about Beowulf, and looked with wonder and amazement on the head of the fierce sea monster and read with strange thrills of awe the wondrous history of the sword and the cunning work of its forgers.

Then to Beowulf, Hrothgar spoke in friendly wise, “Glorious is thy victory, O Beowulf, and great and marvelous is the strength that God hath given thee, but accept now in the hour of thy success a word of kindly counsel. When a man rides on the high tide of success he may think that his strength and glory are forever, but it is God alone who giveth him courage and power over others, and in the end all must fall before the arrows of death. God sent Grendel to punish me for my pride when I had freed the Danes and built my pinnacled mead-hall. Then when this despair was upon me he brought thee to my salvation. Bear then thy honors meekly, and give thanks to God that made thee strong. Go now into the feast and join thy happiness to that of my warriors.”

That day the high walls of Heorot rang with the thunderous shouts of the warriors and echoed the inspiring words of the Skalds who sang of Beowulf’s victory. When at last darkness settled o’er the towers and pinnacles of the palace, the grateful Danes laid themselves down to sleep in peace and safety, knowing that their slumber would never again be disturbed by the old sea woman or her giant progeny.

CUPID AND PSYCHE

Adapted by ANNA MCCALEB

Once upon a time, in a far-off country whose exact location no man knows, there lived a king whose chief glory and pride was in his three beautiful daughters. The two elder sisters were sought in marriage by princes, but Psyche, by far the most beautiful of the three, remained at her father’s home, unsought. The fact was, she was so lovely that all the people worshiped her as a goddess, while no man felt that he was worthy to ask for her hand.

“Shall a mere mortal,” they said, “venture to seek the love of Venus, queen of beauty?”

When Psyche learned of the name they had given her she was frightened, for she knew well the jealous, vengeful nature of the goddess of beauty. And she did well to fear; for Venus, jealous, angry, was even then plotting her destruction.

“Go,” she said to her son Cupid. “Wound that proud, impertinent girl with your arrows, and see to it that she falls in love with some wretched, depraved human being. She shall pay for attempting to rival me.”

Off went the mischievous youth, pleased with his errand; but when he bent over the sleeping Psyche and saw that she was far more beautiful than any one whom he had ever looked upon, he started hastily back, and wounded, not the maiden, but himself, with his arrow. Happy, and yet wretched in his love (for he knew his mother too well to fancy that she would relent toward the offending Psyche), he stole away; and for days he did not go near his mother, knowing that she would demand of him the outcome of his mission.

Meanwhile the old king, feeling that disgrace rested on his family because no man had come to seek Psyche in marriage, sent messengers to ask of the oracle [Footnote: An oracle was a place where some god answered questions about future happenings. The same name was also given to the answers made by the god. The most famous oracles were that of Jupiter at Dodona and that of Apollo at Delphi, the latter holding chief place. At Delphi there was a temple to Apollo built over a chasm in the mountain side from which came sulphurous fumes. A priestess took her seat on a tripod over this chasm, and the answers she gave to inquiries were supposed to be dictated by the god. These answers were almost always unintelligible, and even when interpreted by the priests were ambiguous and of little use. Nevertheless, the Greeks believed in oracles firmly, and never undertook any important work without first consulting one or more of them.] of Apollo whether he or his family had ignorantly offended any of the gods. Eagerly he watched for the return of the messengers, but as they came back the sight of their white faces told him that no favorable answer had been theirs.

“Pardon, O King,” said the spokesman, “thy servants who bring thee ill news. We can but speak the words of the gods, which were these:

“‘For hear thy doom; a rugged rock there is Set back a league from thine own palace fair; There leave the maid, that she may wait the kiss Of the fell monster that doth harbour there: This is the mate for whom her yellow hair And tender limbs have been so fashioned, This is the pillow for her lovely head.

“‘And if thou sparest now to do this thing, I will destroy thee and thy land also,
And of dead corpses shalt thou be the king, And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go, Howling for second death to end thy woe; Live therefore as thou mayst and do my will, And be a king that men may envy still.'” [Footnote: From William Morris’s Earthly Paradise.]

Imagine the grief of the loving father at these words! Had the oracle but threatened punishment to him, he would have endured any torture before subjecting his child to such a fate; but as a king, he dared not bring ruin on all his people, who trusted him. Psyche, herself, numb with horror, commanded quietly that preparations be made for the procession which should accompany her to the rock described by the oracle. Some days later, this procession set out, the priests in their white robes preceding Psyche, who, in mourning garments, with bowed head and clasped hands, walked between her father and mother. Her parents bewailed their fate and clung to her, but she said only, “It is the will of the gods, and therefore must be.”

At last the mountain top was reached, the last heart-breaking farewells were said, and the procession wound back toward the city, leaving Psyche alone. All the horror of her fate burst upon her as she stood on the bleak rock, and she raised her hands to heaven and cried. Suddenly, however, it seemed to her that the breeze which blew past her murmured in her ear “Do not fear”; and certainly she felt herself being lifted gently and carried over mountain and valley and sea. At last, she was placed on a grassy bank, in a pleasant, flower-bright valley, and here she fell asleep, feeling quite safe after all her fears.

On awaking, she strolled about the lovely garden in which she found herself, wondering to see no one, though on all sides there were signs of work and care and thought. At the door of a palace, more gorgeous than any she had ever seen before, she paused, but soft voices called “Enter, beautiful maiden,” and gentle hands, which she saw not, drew her within the door. While she gazed in wonder at the wrought golden pillars, the ivory and gold furnishings, the mosaic of precious stones which formed the floor, a voice said, close beside her:

“Sovereign lady, let not fear oppress thee: All is thine on which thine eye doth rest. We, whose voices greet thee, are thy servants– Thou art mistress here, not passing guest. In thy chamber, bed of down awaits thee; Perfumed baths our skilled hands prepare.”

As she had slept in the garden, Psyche felt no need of rest, but passed at once to the refreshment of the bath. Then, for she had eaten nothing since the oracle’s decree, she seated herself at the table and ate of the delicious dishes which the invisible hands presented to her. Swiftly the remaining hours of daylight passed, while the amazed and enraptured Psyche wandered about the palace and listened to the exquisite music which invisible performers furnished for her.

With the coming of the darkness, the voice which had spoken to her at her entrance said, “Our master comes!” And shortly after, he began to speak to her himself. At the first tones of his gentle, loving voice, Psyche forgot her fears, forgot the oracle; and when her unseen lover said, “Canst thou love me somewhat in return for all the love I give thee?” she answered, “Willingly!”

“Thou mayest have all the joys which earth and heaven afford; one thing only I ask of thee in return. I shall come to thee with the darkness, and never shalt thou try to see my face.”

Psyche promised, and she kept her promise faithfully for a long time, though her longing to see the husband who was so good to her was great. During the hours when he was with her, she was perfectly happy, but through the long days, when she had nothing but the voices that had greeted her on her arrival, and her own thoughts for company, she longed and longed to see her sisters, and to send to her parents news of her happiness. One night when her husband came, she begged of him that he would allow her sisters to visit her.

“Art thou not happy with me, Pysche?” he asked sorrowfully. “Do I not fill thy heart as thou fillest mine?”

“I am happier with thee than ever happy girl was with seen lover,” replied Psyche, “but my parents and my sisters are yet in sorrow over my fate, and my heart tells me it is selfishness for me to be so happy while they grieve for me.”

At last, her husband gave a reluctant consent to her request, and on the very next day, the West Wind, [Footnote: The winds, four in number, were the sons of Aeolus, god of the storm and of winds. Their names were Boreas, the north wind; Zephyrus, the west wind; Auster, the south wind, and Eurus, the east wind.] who had brought Psyche to this retreat, brought her two sisters and set them down at her door. Joyfully Psyche led them in, and she commanded her invisible servants to serve them with the finest foods and entertain them with the most exquisite music. After the meal was over, the happy girl conducted them about the palace and pointed out to them all its treasures. She was not proud or boastful; she only wanted to show them how kind and thoughtful her husband was. But the sights that met their eyes filled them with envy, and when Psyche left the room to make some further plans for their comfort, one said to the other:

“Is it not unendurable that this girl, who was left unsought in our father’s house for years, should be living in such splendor? I shall hate the sight of my own palace when I return.”

“Yes,” sighed the other, “all the polished oaken furnishings of which I was so proud will be worthless in my eyes after seeing Psyche’s magnificent ivory and gold. And she is our younger sister!”

“Do you notice,” said the elder sister, “that while she says much about what her husband does for her, she says nothing at all about him? But wait–here she comes–say nothing, and I will question her.”

Happy, innocent Psyche, never doubting that her sisters were as pleased at her good fortune as she would have been at theirs, came to lead them to another room, but her sister detained her.

“Stay,” she said, “we have something to ask of you. About all the splendors of your palace you have talked; you have told us at great length about your husband’s goodness to you. But not a word about his looks or his age or his occupation have you said. See, sister! She blushes! Shy girl, she has been unwilling to speak of him until we spoke first.”

“No doubt,” said the other sister, “she has saved until the last her description of him, since he is the best part of her life here.”

Poor Psyche knew not what to say. How should she confess that, after these many months, she had never seen her husband; that she knew not at all what manner of man he was?

“Why, he’s a young man,” she replied hesitatingly, “a very young man, and he spends much of his time hunting on the mountains.”

“Has he blue eyes or brown?” asked the elder sister.

“I–why–O, blue eyes,” said Psyche.

“And his hair,” inquired the second sister, “is it straight or curling, black or fair?”

“It’s–it’s straight and–and brown,” faltered poor Psyche, who had never before uttered a lie.

“Now, see here, my child,” said the elder sister, “I can tell from your answers that you’ve never seen this precious husband of yours. Is not that the case?”

Psyche nodded, the tears running down her cheeks.

“But he’s so good to me,” she whispered. “And I promised I wouldn’t try to see him.”

“Good to you! You deluded innocent, of course he’s good to you! What did the oracle say? It’s plain to be seen that the prophecy has come true and that you are wedded to some fearful monster, who is kind to you now that he may kill and devour you by-and-by.”

At length, for they were older than Psyche, and she had always been accustomed to taking their advice, they convinced her that her only safety lay in discovering at once what sort of a monster had her in its possession.

“Now mind,” they counseled her, “this very night conceal a lamp and a dagger where you can reach them easily, and as soon as he is asleep, steal upon him. You shall see what you shall see. And if he’s the distorted monster we think him, plunge the knife into his heart.”

Poor, timid Psyche! Left to herself, she scarce knew what to do. She kindled the lamp, then extinguished it, ashamed of her lack of faith in her kind husband.

But when she heard him coming, she again hastily lighted the lamp and hid it, with a sharp dagger, behind a tapestry. When her husband approached her she pretended weariness; she knew that if she allowed him to talk with her, her fears would melt away.

“My visit with my sisters has tired me. Let me rest,” she pleaded, and her husband, always ready to humor any wish of hers, did not try to coax her into conversation. He threw himself upon the couch, and when his regular breathing told her that he really slept, Psyche arose tremblingly, took up her lamp and dagger and stole to his side. Lifting her lamp high she looked upon–the very god of Love, himself!

[Illustration: SHE LOOKED UPON THE GOD OF LOVE]

“I stood
Long time uncertain, and at length turned round And gazed upon my love. He lay asleep,
And ah, how fair he was! The flickering light Fell on the fairest of the gods, stretched out In happy slumber. Looking on his locks
Of gold, and faultless face and smile, and limbs Made perfect, a great joy and trembling took me Who was most blest of women, and in awe And fear I stooped to kiss him. One warm drop From the full lamp within my trembling hand, Fell on his shoulder.”
[Footnote: From Epic of Hades by Lewis Morris]

Cupid awoke, looked with startled eyes at his wife, and reading aright the story of the lamp and the dagger, spread his wings and flew through the open window, saying sadly:

“Farewell! There is no love except with Faith, And thine is dead! Farewell! I come no more!”

Weeping and calling out to her husband, Psyche ran out of doors into the black, stormy night. To the edge of the garden she ran, and then, in her grief and terror she swooned. When she awakened, the palace and garden had vanished, but Psyche cared little for that; henceforth her only care was to seek her husband.

Encountering on her wanderings the kindly Ceres, Psyche implored her help; but Ceres could give her no aid except advice.

“The gods must stand by each other,” she said. “If Venus is angered at thee, I can give thee no aid. This, though, thou mayst do: Go to Venus, submit thyself unto her, and perhaps thou mayst win her favor.”

At the temple of Venus, Psyche encountered that goddess, the cause of all her misfortunes; and right glad was Venus to have the once proud maiden for her humble slave.

“Many are the tasks thou canst perform for me,” said the disdainful goddess, “if them art not as stupid as thou art ugly. Here is a simple little task to begin upon.”

She led Psyche to the storehouse of the temple and pointed out to her a great heap of grain–wheat, barley, poppy seeds, beans and millet.

“When I return at evening,” she commanded, “have each sort of grain in a heap by itself.”

The luckless girl knew that the work could not be accomplished in the time allowed her, and she made, therefore, no attempt to begin it. As she sat with her head in her hands, she heard a faint sound, as if the grain were being stirred about, and looking up, she saw that the ants had come in vast numbers and were sorting it out. Fascinated, she watched them, until long before evening the task was done.

“Thou couldst never have done this by thyself, lazy one,” exclaimed Venus, on her return. “To-morrow I will see whether thou art indeed able to do anything. Beyond the river which flows past my temple are golden-fleeced sheep, roaming without a shepherd. Do thou bring to me a portion of their fleece.”

In the morning Psyche set out, utterly discouraged, but afraid to linger in the temple of the angry goddess. When she approached the sheep, she trembled, for they were numerous, and very fierce. As she stood concealed in the rushes by the river bank, the murmuring reeds said to her:

“Wait! At noon the sheep will seek the shade. Then mayst thou gather of their fleece from the bushes under which they have ranged,”

With a thankful heart Psyche followed the directions, and at evening returned unharmed with the golden wool, which she presented to Venus. Again the goddess upbraided her.

“Well I know that of thine own self thou couldst never have done this,” she cried wrathfully; nor did she stop to reflect that the fact that Psyche thus received aid, unasked, in her difficulties, was a proof that all things on earth loved and pitied her, Instead, she gave her yet another task.

“Take this casket; go with it to the realms of the dead, and ask of Proserpina that she loan me a little of her beauty. I have worried about the undutiful conduct of my son until I have grown thin and pale, and I would look my best at the assembly of the gods to-morrow night.”

This was the most hopeless task of all. To go to the realms of the dead–what did it mean but that she must die?

“As well soon as late,” sighed the poor girl; and she climbed to the top of a high tower, meaning to cast herself down. But even here, where no living thing seemed to be, a voice came to her ears.

“Desist, rash girl, from thy plan! Thou art not yet to die. If thou wilt observe carefully all the directions which I shall give thee, thou shalt fulfill thy cruel mistress’s stern behest. From a cave in yonder hill there leads a path, straight into the earth. No man has ever trodden it. Along this shalt thou journey, bearing in thy hand sops for the three-headed dog of Pluto, and money for the grim ferryman, Charon. It is written that thou shalt succeed; only, thou shalt not open the box which hides the beauty of Proserpina.”

[Illustration: PSYCHE AND CHARON]

The voice ceased, and Psyche climbed from her tower and set out on the arduous journey. Through long, long hours she toiled over the rough path in utter darkness. What was on either side of her, she knew not; no sound came to her except the far-off drip of water slipping through the rocks. At length, when she was ready to drop with fatigue and fear, a faint light appeared before her. Somewhat cheered, she walked on, and stepping from the vast tunnel in which she had been journeying, she found herself on the bank of a river. It was not such a river as she had seen gliding through the green fields and glittering over the rocks of her native country; it was a sluggish, inky-black stream, [Footnote: There were several great rivers in Pluto’s realm. Phlegethon, a river of fire, separated Tartarus, the abode of the wicked, from the rest of Hades, while Cocytus, a salty river, was composed of the tears of the dwellers in Tartarus. But the most famous of the rivers were the Styx, by which the gods swore; the Lethe, a draught from which made one forget all that had ever happened and begin life anew; and the Acheron, a black, cold stream, over which the spirits of the dead had to be ferried before they could enter Pluto’s realm. The ferryman was Charon; and since he would row no one over the river unless he were paid for it, the ancients placed under the tongue of the dead a small coin wherewith the fare might be paid.] which slid on without ever a ripple. A strange, gray light filled all the place, and showed to her a ferryboat, moored to the shore, and a grim-looking, old, long-bearded ferryman.

“Will you take me over the river?” asked Psyche, in a faint voice. The ferryman gave her no answer, but she ventured to step upon his craft, upon which he instantly shoved off. Without a sound they moved across the river, and when Psyche stepped off on the farther shore, she knew she was really in Hades, the dreadful realm of Pluto. Tossing back onto the boat the coin she had brought, she went on and on, until she came to a great gloomy tower of black marble. On the threshold stood Pluto’s dog, three-headed Cerberus, and fiercely he barked at the poor frightened girl. However, the sop which she threw to him quieted him, and she passed on into the palace. There, on their black thrones, sat Pluto and Proserpina, king and queen of this hopeless realm.

“Great queen,” said Psyche, bowing humbly before Proserpina’s throne, “my mistress has sent me to borrow for her a little of thy beauty.”

“Willingly will I lend it,” said Proserpina, kindly, “not to please thy proud mistress, but to help thee, poor girl.” And taking the little casket which Psyche had brought with her, she breathed into it, closed it hurriedly, and handed it to the waiting girl.

Gladly did Psyche leave this gloomy abode and set out on her homeward journey. The black path seemed not so long nor so frightful when she knew she was moving toward the light of day; and O, how happy she was when she saw the sunlight glimmering ahead of her! Out once more in the free light and fresh air, she sat down for a time to rest, and a great curiosity came upon her to know what the little casket in her hand contained.

“My beauty must have been growing less through these weeks of trouble and fright,” she thought, “and perhaps if my husband saw me now he would not love me. It can do no harm for me to borrow just a little of the contents of this box.”

She raised the lid, but from the box there came, with a rushing sound, the spirit of sleep. This spirit seized upon Psyche and laid her by the roadside in a sleep resembling death, and here she might have slept for all time, had not Cupid, wandering by, spied her. Bending over her, he kissed her; then he wrestled with the spirit of sleep until he had forced it to release Psyche, and to enter again the little casket from which her curiosity had loosed it.

[Illustration: CUPID SPIED PSYCHE SLEEPING]

“Psyche,” he said, turning to his wife, who lay speechless with happiness at beholding him again, “once through thy curiosity I was lost to thee; this time thou wast almost lost to me. Never again must I leave thee; never must thou be absent from my sight.”

Together, then, they hastened to Olympus, the dwelling of the gods: together they bowed before Jupiter’s throne. The king of the gods, looking upon Psyche and seeing that she was beautiful as a goddess, listened favorably to their petition, and, calling for a cup of ambrosia, presented it to her and said:

“Drink, Psyche; so shalt thou become immortal, and fit wife for a god.”

Venus, touched by her son’s happiness, forgave his bride, and the young lovers, who had gone through so many griefs and hardships, lived happily forever in the beautiful palace presented to them by the king of the gods.

The myth of Cupid and Psyche is of much later date than most of the other myths; in fact, it is met with first in a writer of the second century of the Christian era. Many of the myths are material–that is, they explain physical happenings, such as the rising of the sun, the coming of winter, or the flashing of the lightning; but the myth of Cupid and Psyche has nothing to do with the forces of nature–it is wholly spiritual in its application.

Cupid is Love, while Psyche represents the soul; and thus the story, in its descriptions of Psyche’s sufferings, shows how the soul, loved by heaven, and really loving heaven, is robbed of its joy through its own folly. Only by striving and suffering, the story tells us, is the soul purified and made fit for joy everlasting.

Psyche’s descent into the regions of the dead signifies that it is only after death that the soul realizes its true happiness. Even if we did not know just when this myth originated, we might guess from this teaching that the myth was a late one, for the earliest Greeks and Romans did not believe in a real happiness after death. They believed in existence after death, but it was a very shadowy existence, with the most negative sort of pleasures. Later, the Romans, even before they accepted Christianity, had their beliefs more or less modified by their contact with Christians.

We may sum this myth up by saying that it is an allegory of

“the soul of man, the deathless soul, Defeated, struggling, purified and blest.”

As you read this story of Cupid and Psyche, some incidents in it doubtless seemed familiar to you; you had come across them before in various fairy tales. Thus the story of Psyche’s arrival at the palace and of the way in which she was waited upon by invisible beings will remind you of certain parts of Beauty and the Beast, while the labors set for Psyche by Venus will recall The Three Tasks. Now, while some of the fairy stories are undoubtedly borrowed from this old, old tale, it is a singular fact that there is an old Norse story which contains some of the same incidents, and yet could not have been taken from this.

One of the most interesting things about the study of mythology is the attempt to discover how widely separate nations came to have similar stories. Many learned men have worked much over this question, and some of them say that, having the same facts to explain, or the same things to express in allegory, the various ancient peoples naturally hit upon the same explanations. Others believe that this similarity of myths shows that far, far back, the ancestors of these different people must have had intercourse with each other. Probably there is some truth in both theories, though most authorities believe that the former theory covers more cases than does the latter.

We have said that this story is an allegory; do you understand just what an allegory is? There are different types of allegories; in some, each person that appears represents some quality or some influence; in others, a general truth is set forth, but there is no attempt to make every minor character fill a place in the allegory. To which type do you think the story of Cupid and Psyche belongs? Do Psyche’s sisters, for instance, represent anything?

What was the real fault of Psyche–the folly that cost her her happiness?

The word “Psyche” means in Greek, the SOUL; it is also the word for BUTTERFLY. Can you see any reason why the one name should be used for both?

There are still some very, very old pictures which show a man with a butterfly just fluttering out from between his lips. Remembering that the butterfly was the emblem of the soul, can you imagine what the artists meant to show by this?

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

By ROBERT BROWNING

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover City;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.

Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats.
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“‘Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy; And as for our Corporation,–shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing.” At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

[Illustration: PEOPLE CALL ME THE PIED PIPER]

An hour they sate in counsel,–
At length the Mayor broke silence: For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain,– I’m sure my poor head aches again,
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain, O for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
Just as he said this, what could hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?” (With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.) “Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

“Come in!”–the Mayor cried, looking bigger; And in did come the strangest figure;
His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red.
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin;

And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

He advanced to the council-table:
And, “Please your honors,” said he, “I’m able, By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same check; And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats; And as for what your brain bewilders,–
If I can rid your town of rats,
Will you give me a thousand guilders?” “One? fifty thousand!”–was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling, Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers;
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,– Followed the piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished
Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary,
Which was: “At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe,–
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, ‘O rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, ‘Come, bore me!’– I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; “Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders
And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!”–when suddenly, up the face Of the piper perked in the market-place, With a “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!” A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too.
For council-dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! “Beside,” quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, “Our business was done at the river’s brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Besides, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”

The piper’s face fell, and he cried,
“No trifling! I can’t wait! beside, I’ve promised to visit by dinner time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the head cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in, For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor,–
With him I proved no bargain-driver; With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook Being worse treated than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering; And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running;
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by,– And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the piper’s back. But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, As the piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from south to west,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
“He never can cross that mighty top! He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!” When lo, as they reached the mountain’s side, A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the piper advanced and the children followed; And when all were in, to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,–
“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left! I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the piper also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagle’s wings; And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,

[Illustration: A WONDROUS PORTAL OPENED WIDE]

The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!’

FRITHIOF THE BOLD

Adapted by GRACE E. SELLON

Ingeborg was the favored child of King Bele of Sognland–favored not only by the king, but, it would seem, by the gods themselves; for while she possessed great beauty and a disposition of rare loveliness, her brothers, Helge and Halfdan, were endowed neither with comeliness nor with the bravery and the gentler virtues of true princes. Indeed, King Bele seemed to have good cause for regarding Frithiof, the stalwart son of his loyal friend Thorsten, with greater affection than he bestowed upon his own sons, for Frithiof was fearless in danger and could surpass all other youths in feats of strength, yet was so mild- mannered and noble-hearted that from the first he found great pleasure in the companionship of the little princess Ingeborg.

With so much satisfaction did King Bele look upon this comradeship that when Ingeborg was but a small child he gave her into the care of her foster-father, Hilding, under whose guardianship Frithiof also had been placed. Thus thrown constantly into each other’s company, the youth and his child playmate found delight in daily expeditions through the forest and on the firth; [Footnote: Firth, an arm of the sea.] and rare times they had.

“Her pilot soon he joyed to glide,
In Viking*-guise, o’er stream and tide: Sure, hands so gentle, heart so gay,
Ne’er plauded rover’s young essay!

“No beetling lair, no pine-rocked nest, Might ‘scape the love-urged spoiler’s quest: Oft ere an eaglet-wing had soared,
The eyry mourned its parted hoard.

“He sought each brook of rudest force, To bear his Ing’borg o’er its source:
So thrilling, midst the wild alarm, The tendril-twining of her arm.”
[Footnote: From Longfellow’s translation of portions of Tegner’s Frithiof Saga.]
*[Footnote: Viking, the name of the Norse sea-pirates who coasted the shores of Europe in the eighth, ninth and tenth centuries. The name is derived from wick, a kind of creek or inlet which these plunderers used as harbors.]

As the years passed, and Ingeborg became lovelier and Frithiof more brave and noble each day, their pleasure in each other’s company grew deeper and more absorbing. From this state of happy content, however, Frithiof was to be rudely awakened by the faithful Hilding, who could see a great disappointment looming in the path of his young charge.

Calling Frithiof to him one day, he said:

“Thou knowest the grief I would feel to see thee unhappy. For thy own good I warn thee that it is not possible for Ingeborg ever to be thine. Thou dost forget that she is the king’s daughter, and can trace her lineage even to All-father Odin, [Footnote: Odin, the father of the Norse gods. From his lofty throne in Asgard, home of the gods, he could survey and govern all heaven.] while thou art a mere subject in this realm.”

“Ah, but strength and prowess, the gifts of Thor [Footnote: Thor, the eldest son of Odin, superior in strength to all the other Norse gods. He was renowned for the possession of a wonderful hammer, which, after being cast at an object, came back of itself to the hand of him who had thrown it, a magic belt that greatly increased his strength; and a pair of iron gloves that gave him strength and skill in throwing his hammer.] himself, must rank above the dignity of kings. Ingeborg, the white lily, shall be mine,” retorted Frithiof in angry pride, and took himself off, apparently unheeding the counsel.

Nevertheless, when he thought later of Hilding’s words and of the hostile feelings that Halfdan and Helge bore him because of envy of his prowess, he became troubled in mind.

It was not long after this that both Bele and his loyal Thorsten, after impressing many a word of wisdom upon the hearts and minds of their heirs, died peacefully and were placed so near each other that in death, as in life, they seemed always together.

Helge and Halfdan now became the kings of Sogn and Frithiof went to live on the estate of Framnas, left him by his father. Great indeed was his inheritance, for he came into possession of the wonderful sword Angurvadel, on the blade of which were mystic runes [Footnote: Runes, letters or characters of ancient Scandinavian alphabets. The literal meaning of rune, a secret or mystery, is explained by the fact that at first these symbols could be read only by a few.] dull in times of peace, but fiery red in war; the magic ring or armlet made by Vaulund the smith, and the ship Ellida, built in the shape of a dragon and swifter in its flight than any eagle.

[Illustration: THEY HAD BECOME BETROTHED]

These gifts of good fortune, however, failed to satisfy the new master of Framnas. So greatly did he miss the presence of Ingeborg that he could find content in no occupation and wandered about in restlessness. At length he determined to dispel his loneliness by filling his great house with guests and holding a feast that should cause him to be remembered ever afterwards for boundless hospitality. Just at this time came Helge and Halfdan with their sister Ingeborg to visit him. Then indeed did Frithiof’s gloom take flight as he sat by Ingeborg’s side or with her roamed the woods and fields, living over again the days of their happy comradeship and building hopes for an even happier reunion in the future. In renewing their love, they had secretly become betrothed, and thus the hours of the visit sped all too swiftly.

After the departure of Ingeborg it seemed to Frithiof that all joy had gone out of the world. His dark mood returned, and dismal fears began to haunt him day and night. Unable longer to endure this desperate state, he acted upon a sudden resolve, and set sail in his ship, Ellida, for the home of the princess, determined to ask formally for her hand in marriage. It was a daring project; but Frithiof was a fearless suitor.

Having anchored his boat on the shore of the firth, he advanced at once to where the two kings were “seated on Bele’s tomb,” administering law to the common people.

In a voice that reechoed round the valleys and peaks, Frithiof cried,

“Ye kings, my love is Ing’borg fair;
To ask her in marriage I here repair; And what I require
I here maintain was King Bele’s desire!” [Footnote: Spalding’s translation of Tegner’s Frithiof Saga.]

The bold words and kingly bearing of the youth drew to him the admiring gaze of all the great assembly. But Helge looked at him, at first in astonishment; then, in deep scorn.

“The hand of my sister, the Princess Ingeborg, is for none of such mean estate as thou. Wouldst thou enter our household? Accept then the place of serving-man,” the king at length replied disdainfully.

At these slighting words Frithiof was so moved by rage that he would have slain the king then and there had not the place been hallowed by Bele’s tomb. As it was, he split the royal shield in two with his mighty sword; then, drawing himself up to his full height, he turned abruptly and strode back to his ship, with head held loftily and eyes flashing with terrible anger.

Scarcely had he returned home when he was visited by his foster-father Hilding who, strange as it may seem, had come to ask his aid in behalf of Ingeborg and her brothers.

“The one whom thou lovest has given herself up to grief in the temple of Balder, [Footnote: Balder, the much-loved god of spring.] where she spends each day in tears,” Hilding mournfully began. “Her fate is sealed, as is that of the whole kingdom, if thou wilt not help us resist King Ring of Ringland who, notwithstanding his great age, has demanded Ingeborg’s hand in marriage, and in anger is marching against us because his request has been refused,” continued the faithful old guardian beseechingly.

Frithiof was playing at chess with his companion Bjorn, and to all appearance did not hear nor heed the words of Hilding. His wounded pride cried for revenge. However, by artful remarks concerning the moves that were being made on the board, he let it be known that he was aware of the king’s peril but would allow himself to be concerned only for the welfare of Ingeborg. When at length Hilding pressed for an answer, Frithiof cried out:

“Haste! tell the sons of royal Bele
I wear not a retainer’s steel;*
For wounded honor bids divide
The sacred bond it once revered.”
[Footnote: Longfellow’s translation.] *[Footnote: Retainer’s steel, the sword of a subject]

Filled with secret dismay by Hilding’s unsuccessful mission, Helge and Halfdan set forth at once to meet the invading King Ring. Scarcely had they departed when Frithiof, impelled by pity for Ingeborg, went to seek her in Balder’s temple. Sympathy had indeed blinded Frithiof’s better judgment, for the spot on which the temple stood was held so sacred that the law forbade it to be used for lover’s trysts. Regardless of peril, he approached Ingeborg, who, fearful for his safety, implored him to return to Framnas; but the reckless youth, defying Balder’s wrath, remained to assure the unhappy princess of his lasting devotion to her welfare.

“By the honor of my race, I swear that thou wilt ever be dearer to me than all things else beside,” declared Frithiof solemnly, with bowed head. And then, giving Ingeborg the Vaulund ring, with her he made a vow that their troth should never be broken.

Little did they know how soon their words were to be proved vain! Even then were Helge and Halfdan coming back to Sogn to fulfill the promise made King Ring that Ingeborg should become his bride; and even then did Frithiof’s violation of Balder’s shrine cry out accusingly, demanding grim punishment.

Immediately upon Helge’s return he learned of Frithiof’s misdeed. Summoning the offender to him, he asked, in awful tones: “Hast thou aught to say in denial of the grave charge that stands against thee for defiling the sanctuary?”

“According to the law, the charge is just,” calmly answered Frithiof.

“Then get thee hence at once,” cried Helge. “Sail to the Orkney Islands and there let us see if thy boldness will avail to secure from Earl Angantyr the long-due tribute money. If thou succeed, return; but if thou fail, let shame for thy empty boasts and overweening pride keep thee from these shores forever.”

The thought of parting seemed so cruel that Frithiof tried to persuade Ingeborg to go with him to the sunny land of Greece. “There shalt thou dwell in queenly fashion, and I myself will be thy most devoted subject,” he pleaded.

Ingeborg, faithful to duty, replied: “My brothers now take my father’s place in my life, and I cannot be happy unless I have their consent to my marriage.”

In deep dejection Frithiof then set sail in Ellida, Ingeborg watching him from the shore with a heavy and foreboding heart. Hardly had the ship got under way when there arose a terrible storm, caused by two witches whom Helge had paid to use their evil power against his enemy. For days the storm raged, until it seemed that the dragon-ship must be wrecked.

“As made with defeat,
It blows more and more hard;
There is bursting of sheet,
There is splintering of yard.
O’er and o’er the half-gulfed side, Flood succeeding flood is poured;
Fast as they expel the tide,
Faster still it rolls aboard.
Now e’en Frithiof’s dauntless mind Owned the triumph of his foe;
Louder yet than wave and wind
Thus his thundering accents flow!
‘Haste and grasp the tiller,
Bjorn, with might of bear-paw!
Tempest so infuriate
Comes not from Valhalla.*
Witchcraft is a-going;
Sure, the coward Helge
Spells* the raging billows!
Mine the charge to explore.'”
[Footnote: Longfellow’s translation] *[Footnote: Valhalla, the palace of Odin, in Asgard, the home of the gods.]
*[Footnote: Spells, bewitches]

Had the prayers of Ingeborg at length availed? Even as he was gazing out over the waters, Frithiof beheld the two witches floating before him on the back of a great whale. Then it was that his ship Ellida, intelligent and faithful as a human servant, saved him from the power of the crafty Helge. Bearing down quickly upon the evil-workers, it despatched one of them with its sharp prow, while Frithiof, with one thrust of his weapon, destroyed the other. But the vessel was filled with water, and the sailors were forced to bale continually. In this desperate plight the Orkney Islands were reached, and the exhausted crew were borne ashore. Frithiof, too, was worn with fatigue, yet he carried eight of his men at one time from the ship to safety.

When Ellida put into harbor, Earl Angantyrand his warriors were in the midst of a drinking-bout at the palace. The old attendant Halvar, while refilling the Earl’s horn [Footnote: Horn, a drinking vessel, horn shaped, or made of horn.] with mead, [Footnote: Mead, a drink made of honey and water.] called the attention of the party to the incoming vessel.

“A ship that can weather such a sea must be no other than Ellida, bearing the doughty son of my good friend Thorsten,” exclaimed Angantyr, rising to get a better view.

At these words of praise the keenest envy was aroused in Atle and several of his companions who were most celebrated in that realm for their skill and prowess as huntsmen and warriors; and in a body they went down to the shore to challenge the far-famed youth of Norway.

Again did the magic Angurvadel stand its owner in good stead. Atle’s sword having been broken, Frithiof cast aside his own weapon, and the two men wrestled until the latter threw his opponent and stood over him victor.

“Now had I my sword, thou should’st die,” cried Frithiof. “Get thy weapon,” calmly replied Atle. “I give thee my word I will await thy return.”

Frithiof recovered Angurvadel, but as he was about to plunge it into Atle’s body he was so moved by the fearlessness of the vanquished man that he spared his life. Earl Angantyr then warmly welcomed the son of his noble friend Thorsten, and because of the memory of this friendship agreed to pay the required tribute.

[Illustration: FRITHIOF BEHELD THE TWO WITCHES]

Not until spring did Frithiof return to Sogn. When he arrived in his native land he learned of two direful events. Helge had destroyed the estate at Framnas, and had given Ingeborg as a bride to King Ring. Into such a furious passion did the news put him, that he went at once to seek out Helge. The two kings with their wives were worshipping in Balder’s temple. Unable to suppress his rage, Frithiof advanced toward Helge and thrust Angantyr’s tribute into the very face of the king. Then, finding that Helge’s wife was wearing the magic ring that Ingeborg had been forced to give up, Frithiof tried to wrest this from its wearer, and in doing so caused the queen to drop into the fire an image of the god Balder. In the effort to avert this disaster Halfdan’s wife let fall a second image, and immediately the temple burst into flames.

Had not Frithiof been the most dauntless of all the sons of Norway, he would have been prostrated with fear for the consequences of this terrible sacrilege. Could he longer escape the avenging anger of Balder? Summoning all his courage, he ran to the shore and immediately embarked in Ellida. Swiftly the dragon-ship skimmed the waves, while Helge paced up and down the shore in helpless wrath, all of his vessels having been destroyed by the companions of his fleeing enemy.

For three years thereafter Frithiof roved the seas as a viking, overcoming the great sea-pirates, and taking from them their rich spoils. At length, when he had become very wealthy, he tired of his ceaseless roaming and came to feel that nothing would satisfy him but to see Ingeborg again. Then, despite the protests of Bjorn, he set out for Norway to visit the kingdom of Ringland.

Arrived at the king’s palace he entered, disguised as an old man, and humbly seated himself among the servants. Soon those about him began to make fun of his forlorn appearance, whereupon he seized a youth standing near, and raising him high above his head, twisted him about as though he weighed no more than a mere babe. This surprising test of strength drew the attention of the entire party, and the king questioned: “Who art thou, and where didst thou pass the night just gone?”

“In Anguish was I nurtured, Want is my homestead bright. Now come I from the Wolf’s den, I slept with him last night” [Footnote: Longfellow’s translation]

came in a quavering voice from Frithiof.

But the king, intent upon further discovery, bade the stranger remove his shaggy cloak. Then Frithiof knew that deception was no longer possible, and, throwing off his cloak, he stood forth in all the might of his manhood. Even had it not been otherwise possible to recognize him, the Vaulund ring worn on his arm would have betrayed its owner. At once his eyes traveled to Ingeborg, who blushed deeply, while the king feigned ignorance.

So much favor did Frithiof find with the aged monarch, that he was besought to remain at the court during the winter. On one occasion he repaid this hospitality by saving the lives of the king and queen when they were on their way to a feast. The ice over which they were passing broke, and they would have sunk into the river below had not Frithiof by main force pulled the pony and sleigh out of the water.

Somewhat later, while accompanying the royal party on a visit to the woods and fields where the new beauty of the springtime could be fully enjoyed, Frithiof was left alone with King Ring. Feeling weary, the old man lay down upon a cloak spread for him by his companion, and fell asleep with his head upon the younger man’s knee. As he lay thus, a coal-black raven from a near-by tree called in hoarse whispers to Frithiof: “Take his life, now that he is in thy power.” But from another bough a bird, white as snow, admonished him: “Respect old age and be true to the trust that has been placed in thee.” Thereupon Frithiof cast his sword from him as far as it could be thrown. Soon the king aroused himself from the sleep that he had merely pretended, and said in kindly tones:

“I know thee now to be a brave and loyal friend; and thy trustworthiness shall be rewarded, Frithiof. Do not be surprised that I speak thy name, for I have known thee from the first. Even now the darkness of death is closing round me, and when the light of Midgard [Footnote: Midgard, the name given in Norse mythology to earth, as distinguished from Asgard (the home of the gods) and Hel (the lower world).] fades from my sight, I shall die willing that thou marry Ingeborg and rule my kingdom until my young son shall have grown to manhood.”

Frithiof, whose noble nature had been deeply touched by the king’s generosity, would have departed from Ringland soon afterward, but with great difficulty was prevailed upon to stay. And so it came about that when in a little time the king died, the long years of trial endured by Ingeborg and Frithiof were brought to an end, and their constancy was rewarded. To fill the measure of their joy, Halfdan, who was now reigning alone, Helge having died, became reconciled to them and gladly agreed to their union. Indeed, it was he who led his sister to the altar in the restored temple of Balder and gave her into the safe- keeping of her faithful lover.

When you think how old your grandmother and grandfather seem, and then remember that they have lived less than a hundred years, you feel that a story which has been living for hundreds of years is indeed very old. Such a story is the one that you have just been reading. Many more children than you could possibly imagine, if you were trying to picture them all in one place–especially children of Norway, Sweden and Denmark–have delightedly read or listened to this same interesting tale.

The Frithiof saga,[Footnote: Saga, an ancient Scandinavian legend, or mythical or historical tale.] as the story is called, did not appear in its present form until the fourteenth century, though it is believed to have existed, at least in part, in earlier ages. It has been told and retold by writers of Norway and Sweden, translated into many languages, and even made into a celebrated epic[Footnote: Epic, a narrative poem concerned usually with historic deeds and characters, and written in a style of marked dignity and grandeur.] poem by the Swedish poet, Tegner.

Of course in the fourteenth century the people of northern Europe no longer thought that Odin, Balder and the other gods mentioned in the story lived in Valhalla and ruled the world. But at that time many did believe in magic and in the evil power of witches; and it is altogether probable that the wonderful ship Ellida, which possessed human intelligence and could save its master from shipwreck; the witches traveling about on the whale’s back; the talking birds, and the magical ring and sword would have seemed far less astonishing to these people than would our great ocean steamships and men-of-war, our railroad trains and trolley cars, our telephones and talking-machines, and many other modern wonders in which we fully believe.

While we agree with the children of the long-ago in admiring Frithiof’s bravery and faithfulness and Ingeborg’s amiability and constancy, probably we are most interested in the story because of the many adventures that it contains. How many of the bold deeds of Frithiof can you recall without turning to the story? If you can remember all of them you are surely doing well. Can you name these deeds in just the order in which you have read them? Suppose you tell this story some time when you are playing school with the younger children in the family or in the neighborhood. It would be a good thing for you to do just what a real teacher might do: go over the story, picking out all of the principal events and writing these briefly and clearly on a slip of paper, one under another, exactly in the order in which they occur.

THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED

Adapted by GRACE E. SELLON

NOTE.–Near the beginning of the thirteenth century there was written in Germany one of the greatest story-poems in the literature of the world. This is the Nibelungenlied, a partly historical, partly mythical tale containing more than two thousand stanzas composed by an unknown poet, or perhaps by several poets. The first half of the poem is made up mostly of the deeds of Siegfried, a warrior king claimed as a national hero, not only by the Germans but by the Norse people, who lived in northern Europe, in the countries of Iceland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark. In the Norse stories, however, Siegfried is known as Sigurd.

It is not at all certain that Siegfried was an historical person. Though there is some reason for thinking that he was Arminius, the fearless leader of the Germans in the terrible revolt by which they overthrew their Roman rulers in the year 9 A. D., yet of the warriors with whom he has been identified, Siegfried seems most like Sigibert, king of the Franks who lived in Austrasia, or ancient Germany. For this king, like Siegfried, overcame the Saxons and Danes by his brave fighting, he too discovered a hidden treasure, and he was at length treacherously put to death by pages of his sister-in-law, Fredegunde, with whom his wife, Brunhilde, had quarreled over some question of precedence.

After all, though, it does not make a great difference whether or not Siegfried was any of the heroes to whom he has been likened or was all of them put together; he really lives for us in the wonderful story of his knightly bravery and good faith.

Some of the greatest poets and dramatists and composers, not only of Germany, but of other countries as well, have made use of incidents from the Nibelungenlied. Of all these works which have been produced with this old poem as a basis, the Ring of the Nibelungen, a group of four operas by Richard Wagner, is most famous. These operas, which are among the finest works of this great composer, are not based absolutely on the Nibelungenlied; many happenings in the life of the hero, Siegfried, are different. But it is clear that Wagner drew his inspiration from this thirteenth century epic, and his use of it has opened other people’s eyes to its beauties.

In the golden days of knightly adventure, when heroes famed for marvelous daring went up and down the land in search of deeds in which to display their skill, strength and courage in combat, and their gallantry towards fair ladies, there lived in one of the countries on the Rhine a prince named Siegfried who, though but a youth, was noted far and wide for his unequaled valor and boldness. When he was a mere boy he nobly served his country in putting to death the Dragon of the Linden-tree, a monster so full of hate that it would cast its poison out upon any one who came near it, and so strong that it could destroy any one who tried to conquer it. Nevertheless the fearless Siegfried not only slew this evil creature but bathed in its blood, thus making his own skin so hard that it could never afterward be pierced by any weapon. At another time, while traveling through the land of the Nibelungers, he came upon the two princes of the country and a company of their attendants gathered about the foot of a hill from which had just been taken great quantities of gold and precious stones.

[Illustration: SIEGFRIED AND THE DRAGON]

“Ho, Siegfried,” called one of the princes, advancing to meet him, “come to our aid, for we are much in need of some one to divide between my brother and myself this treasure left us by our father. For such help we will prove to you our gratitude.”

Siegfried, however, would have ridden on had not both princes and all those about them urged him again and again to make the division. They gave him, for reward, the mighty sword Balmung, that had belonged to the dead king of the Nibelungers, and then in anxious expectation stood around him as he began to count out and separate the pieces of gold and the shining stones.

But Siegfried soon grew weary of his task, and glancing over the great piles of treasure that would have filled more than a hundred wagons, he turned impatiently away and would have departed had not twelve powerful companions of the two princes blocked his path.

“Do you think to stay me thus?” cried Siegfried; and before they could answer he attacked them one after another and put them all to death. Then in fury rode against him seven hundred of the great warriors of that land, but, secure in the possession of Balmung, and with a skin like horn, Siegfried overcame every opponent. Last of all he slew the two princes and subdued the dwarf Alberich, whom he made keeper of the treasure.

From this same dwarf he wrested a magic cloak or tarnkappe, that gave its owner wonderful strength, made him proof against every blow dealt him, and enabled him to become invisible. At length, when the remaining nobles had sworn allegiance to him, Siegfried rode away, lord of the Nibelunger’s land and treasure.

At this time there dwelt in Burgundy, on the Rhine, a young princess of such rare virtue and beauty that noble youths had come from every land to win her as a bride. As yet, however, she had bestowed her favor upon no one. What, then, were the surprise and foreboding felt by King Siegmund and his queen, Siegelind, the parents of Siegfried, when he made known to them that he was about to fare forth to Burgundy, to sue for the hand of the princess Kriemhild. For they knew that King Gunther, Kriemhild’s brother, was a man of great might, and that he and his powerful nobles might look with displeasure upon Siegfried’s proud bearing. Finding, however, that they could not change the purpose of the young prince, they provided him and his eleven companions with the finest of garments and with armor of dazzling brightness, and allowed him to depart.

Siegfried was not in the least dismayed when, upon reaching the court of Burgundy, he was taken into the presence of the king.

“It would please me much to know why you have journeyed hither, Prince Siegfried,” said Gunther, in kindly tones.

“That I shall tell you without delay,” replied the youth. “I have heard of your prowess, King Gunther, and I have come to prove who is the better in arms, you or I. If in fair combat I am victor, let your kingly authority and your lands be given over to me. If I am vanquished, you may claim my rights and possessions as heir to the throne of Netherland.”

Upon hearing these bold words Gunther looked on the prince with much surprise, yet with no ill will; but his nobles exchanged angry glances and then broke out in threats of punishment for such overweening pride. Not at all daunted, Siegfried would have challenged the whole company had not the king addressed him with such generous courtesy and offers of entertainment for himself and his companions that the large- hearted knight could not refuse to be pacified.

Little did King Gunther know how greatly he was to profit by this kindness. Before long his kingdom was threatened by the combined armies of the Danes and the Saxons led by their kings, Ludegast and Ludger. Learning of the great danger that had cast a gloom over Gunther, Siegfried assured the king, “Do not let yourself be troubled. I am your friend and for your sake will teach these upstarts to rue the day when they foolishly defied the King of Burgundy.” Well pleased with this show of sincere friendship, Gunther entrusted his army to Siegfried, and the young prince of Netherland set forth to meet his foes.

As the Burgundians approached the camp of the enemy, Siegfried rode far in advance to learn what were the numbers of their foes. Thus it was that just without the camp he was challenged by a knight whom he at once recognized as King Ludegast. Leveling their lances, the two warriors rushed together, and each struck full against the other’s shield. Then drawing their swords they fought fiercely until Ludegast, severely wounded, fell from his horse. Immediately, thirty of the followers of the Danish king hurled themselves upon Siegfried, and all but one, who begged for life, were slain by the mighty sword Balmung.

After leading the Burgundians into battle, Siegfried fought in the thickest of the fray until almost unhorsed by the Saxon king, Ludger. Stirred to keenest anger by this incident, the prince of Netherland began to rain blows upon his opponent and doubtless would have overcome him had not Ludger suddenly discovered with whom he was fighting, and cried: “Hold! Stay your hand! Let the battle cease. I will not fight against the terrible might of Siegfried, the Netherlander. Let my men surrender, as I submit.”

Thus was the day won for the Burgundians; and with mingled sorrow for their fallen warriors and joy for the good tidings that they were bearing King Gunther, they traveled back to the Rhine, accompanied by the captive Danes and Saxons and the prisoner kings. Never was a conquering army more gladly and fittingly received with merry-making and pageants, kind gifts and unstinted praise than was the great host that returned to Gunther’s capital.

And, as he deserved, Siegfried was most honored of all. As if the brothers knew what could reward the hero better than anything else in the world, they arranged that Siegfried should at length be presented to their lovely sister, Kriemhild. The plan was indeed no less pleasing to the maiden than to the young prince, for although she lived in seclusion, she had secretly observed him and had come to feel deep admiration and affection for him.

On the day set for the meeting, Kriemhild and her mother, with many attendants, advanced in state to the great room where Gunther held his court. As the princess passed through the crowds that thronged the way, her eyes were often downcast, and a vivid pink overspread the pure whiteness of her cheeks as hundreds of eyes bent upon her their admiring glances. For of all the fair ladies of that court, she was indeed the fairest.

Noting her rare beauty and the modesty, gentleness and grace of her bearing, Siegfried could only exclaim to himself, “She is too good and beautiful for me to win; yet I must always be wretched if I go from this land and never see her again.”

Shortly afterward, with formal ceremony, he was presented to the princess, and as he knelt and kissed her hand she murmured: “Welcome again to Burgundy, Sir Siegfried, for surely you have been a brave defender of the honor of our land.”

As the last words fell from her lips she looked at Siegfried with such kind interest and he returned her glance with so much ardor that words were not needed to declare their love. For several days thereafter great festivities were held by the King and his court, and whether at tournament or feast Siegfried always held the envied place by Kriemhild’s side.

Meanwhile a great project had been forming in Gunther’s mind, and one day as he sat among his nobles he declared: “It is my purpose to set forth soon to win a bride who lives in a far distant land. Though the terms by which she is to be won are hard, I cannot be content until I have tried my fate and have either made the fair Brunhilde my wife, or have died in the effort.”

At the mention of the name Brunhilde, Gunther’s companions cried out in dismay, and one of the lords exclaimed:

“Oh, give up, I pray you, this wild enterprise. A great and good king should not be sacrificed to the strange caprice of the Queen of Issland. You know that like all others who have contested against the unmatched strength of Brunhild, you will die without honor.”

Gunther, however, was unmoved by the warning, and turning to Siegfried, he asked, “Will you not help me to carry out my plan? Queen Brunhild, you know, is mightier in combat than any man that lives, yet he who wins her must prove himself superior to her in strength and skill. If he fail, he must die. My friends here think me rash and would induce me to stay at home. In most things I would not oppose them, but in this case I must do as my own heart bids me.”

After some thought Siegfried replied, slowly and impressively: “There is one condition on which I will aid you. I will win Brunhild for you if in return you will give me the hand of your sister, Kriemhild.”

“There is no other to whom I would more gladly trust her than to you,” replied Gunther; and then with clasped hands the two friends sealed their compact.

After busy days of preparation, during which the most splendid raiment that ever clad brave knights was made by Kriemhild and her maidens, Gunther and Siegfried, with several companions, set sail upon the river Rhine, thence to cross the sea to Issland, in the far north. Slowly passed the days of the voyage, for it was a time of keen suspense. “Will good King Gunther ever sail back again into the Rhine country?” was the question that haunted his loyal friends. All but Siegfried were doubtful.

At length, one day, they came into view of a great green castle towering above cliffs. “Behold the home of Brunhild!” cried Siegfried; and then as the eager watchers continued to gaze they could see people hurrying about the castle, evidently excited by the approach of a foreign vessel.

After anchoring the boat the company were taken at once into the presence of Queen Brunhild, who, recognizing the young Netherlander, exclaimed: “Welcome, Prince Siegfried. What brings you to our court?”

Then Siegfried, bowing low, made known their mission:

“Gracious queen, in the name of my lord, the King of Burgundy, I ask for a favorable hearing for his suit. None knows better of his noble qualities than do I, his subject; and none can say with more assurance than I that a nobler husband for Queen Brunhild is nowhere to be found.”

“Ah, if that be his quest,” cried Brunhild, “he can win his bride, not by gentle speeches and looks of love, but by a sterner test than any mortal suitor has ever yet endured.”

Notwithstanding the harsh warning, Gunther, assured by Siegfried, declared: “In the presence of your great beauty, Queen Brunhild, even the strange terms that you propose seem reasonable, and I must accept them, though they bring me and my followers death.”

[Illustration: A GREAT CASTLE TOWERED ABOVE THE CLIFFS]

Thereupon Brunhild began to make ready for the contest, and Siegfried, unobserved, slipped down to the boat in the harbor. Soon three of the Queen’s attendants came staggering under the weight of an immense javelin, and a little later twelve other men slowly and with great difficulty pushed an enormous stone into the field. Then the Queen herself appeared clad in massive armor. The King and his attendants looked on, and when it seemed that surely all must die, they would gladly have withdrawn; but from shame they strove to hide their fears as best they could.

Meanwhile Siegfried had arrayed himself in his magic cloak, the tarnkappe, and thus made invisible to all he returned to the company and hastened to King Gunther’s side.

“Never fear,” whispered Siegfried; “if only you let me do the fighting, while you pretend, by look and movement, to be the doer, Brunhild can never withstand us.”

No sooner had the words been spoken and Siegfried had taken Gunther’s shield in his hand, than the Queen hurled her mighty javelin straight against the two knights. All the earth seemed to resound with the death-dealing blow, and surely had it not been for the tarnkappe both Siegfried and Gunther would have been killed as the great spear pierced the King’s massive shield. But Siegfried, alert for action, seized the weapon and, with the point turned toward himself, returned it with such terrific force that Brunhild was struck to the ground. Hastily arising in confusion and anger, she seized the huge stone, and twirling it about her head sent it flying through the air to a spot more than seventy feet distant. Hardly had it alighted when the Queen, springing up lightly, leapt to a mark beyond. Not at all daunted by this awful show of strength, the invisible Siegfried, with Gunther following, hastened to where the stone lay, and picking it up easily, threw it a much greater distance than had the Queen. Then, carrying Gunther with him, he jumped even farther than the stone had been hurled.

With unconcealed chagrin and disappointment, Brunhild advanced to where Gunther stood and pointing to the King declared: “Behold your lord and master, my subjects. Hereafter give to him your loyal service. Brunhild is no longer your queen.” Then in stately manner the King with his fair companion returned to the castle.

Great indeed was the joy in Gunther’s capital when Siegfried and his attendants, riding in advance of the bridal party, made known the news of the King’s victory. Queen Uta, the mother of Gunther and Kriemhild, gave orders that the most splendid preparation be made for receiving Brunhild, and busily did her maidens ply their needles in making garments more beautiful and costly than ever before had adorned fair ladies. And no less industriously did the squires polish the armor of the knights, while their masters tested their trusty blades, that they might fittingly bear themselves in the jousts and tournaments with which Gunther’s triumph and home-coming would be celebrated.

Long and loud was the shout of welcome that arose from the crowds gathered along the river bank as the ship bearing Gunther and his bride came into view. Then Queen Uta, followed by a long line of maidens, arrayed in many-colored garments that glittered with the most