Young Folks Treasury, Volume 2 (of 12) by Various

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YOUNG FOLKS' TREASURY

In 12 Volumes

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor

EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Associate Editor

VOLUME II: MYTHS AND LEGENDARY HEROES

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, Editor

New York
The University Society Inc.
Publishers

[Illustration: JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT.]

PARTIAL LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS, ASSISTANT EDITORS AND ADVISERS

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
Editor

EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Associate Editor

NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, President Columbia University.

WILLIAM R. HARPER, Late President Chicago University.

HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT, Ex-President of the United States.

HON. GROVER CLEVELAND, Late President of the United States.

JAMES CARDINAL GIBBONS, American Roman Catholic prelate.

ROBERT C. OGDEN, Partner of John Wanamaker.

HON. GEORGE F. HOAR, Late Senator from Massachusetts.

EDWARD W. BOK, Editor "Ladies' Home Journal."

HENRY VAN DYKE, Author, Poet, and Professor of English

Literature, Princeton University.

LYMAN ABBOTT, Author, Editor of "The Outlook."

CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS, Writer of Animal Stories.

JACOB A. RIIS, Author and Journalist.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr., English Professor at Union College.

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, Late Author and Creator of "Uncle Remus."

GEORGE GARY EGGLESTON, Novelist and Journalist.

RAY STANNARD BAKER, Author and Journalist.

WILLIAM BLAIKIE, Author of "How to Get Strong and How to Stay So."

WILLIAM DAVENPORT HULBERT, Writer of Animal Stories.

JOSEPH JACOBS, Folklore Writer and Editor of the "Jewish
Encyclopedia."

MRS. VIRGINIA TERHUNE ("Marion Harland"), Author of "Common Sense in
the Household," etc.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER, Author of "The Art of Home-Making," etc.

SARAH K. BOLTON, Biographical Writer.

ELLEN VELVIN, Writer of Animal Stories.

REV. THEODORE WOOD, F.E.S., Writer on Natural History.

W.J. BALTZELL, Editor of "The Musician."

HERBERT T. WADE, Editor and Writer on Physics.

JOHN H. CLIFFORD, Editor and Writer.

ERNEST INGERSOLL, Naturalist and Author.

DANIEL E. WHEELER, Editor and Writer.

IDA PRENTICE WHITCOMB, Author of "Young People's Story of Music,"
"Heroes of History," etc.

MARK HAMBOURG, Pianist and Composer.

MME. BLANCHE MARCHESI, Opera Singer and Teacher.

CONTENTS

Introduction

MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME

Baucis and Philemon
Adapted by C.E. Smith

Pandora
Adapted by C.E. Smith

Midas
Adapted by C.E. Smith

Cadmus
Adapted by C.E. Smith

Proserpina
Adapted by C.E. Smith

The Story of Atalanta
Adapted by Anna Klingensmith

Pyramus and Thisbe
Adapted by Alice Zimmern

Orpheus
Adapted by Alice Zimmern

MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA

Baldur
Adapted from A. and E. Keary's version

Thor's Adventure among the Jotuns
Adapted by Julia Goddard

The Apples of Idun
Adapted by Hamilton Wright Mabie

The Gifts of the Dwarfs

The Punishment of Loki
Adapted from A. and E. Keary's version

MYTHS OF INDIA

The Blind Man, The Deaf Man, and the Donkey
Adapted by M. Frere

Harisarman

Why the Fish Laughed

Muchie Lal
Adapted by M. Frere

How the Rajah's Son Won the Princess Labam
Adapted by Joseph Jacobs

MYTHS OF JAPAN

The Jellyfish and the Monkey
Adapted by Yei Theodora Ozaki

The Old Man and-the Devils

Autumn and Spring
Adapted by Frank Kinder

The Vision of Tsunu
Adapted by Frank Kinder

The Star-Lovers
Adapted by Frank Kinder

MYTHS OF THE SLAVS

The Two Brothers
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko

The Twelve Months
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko

The Sun; or, the Three Golden Hairs of the Old Man
Vesevde
Adapted by Alexander Chodsko

A MYTH OF AMERICA

Hiawatha
Adapted from H.R. Schoolcraft's version

HEROES OF GREECE AND ROME

Perseus
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

Odysseus
Adapted by Jeanie Lang

The Argonauts
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

Theseus
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

Hercules
Adapted by Thomas Cartwright

The Perilous Voyage of AEneas
Adapted by Alice Zimmern

How Horatius Held the Bridge
Adapted by Alfred J. Church

How Cincinnatus Saved Rome
Adapted by Alfred J. Church

HEROES OF GREAT BRITAIN

Beowulf
Adapted by H.E. Marshall

How King Arthur Conquered Rome
Adapted by E. Edwardson

Sir Galahad and the Sacred Cup
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

The Passing of Arthur
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

Robin Hood
Adapted by H.E. Marshall

Guy of Warwick
Adapted by H.E. Marshall

Whittington and His Cat
Adapted by Ernest Rhys

Tom Hickathrift
Adapted by Ernest Rhys

HEROES OF SCANDINAVIA

The Story of Frithiof
Adapted by Julia Goddard

Havelok
Adapted by George W. Cox and E.H. Jones

The Vikings
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

HERO OF GERMANY

Siegfried
Adapted by Mary Macgregor

HERO OF FRANCE

Roland
Adapted by H.E. Marshall

HERO OF SPAIN

The Cid
Adapted by Robert Southey

HERO OF SWITZERLAND

William Tell
Adapted by H.E. Marshall

HERO OF PERSIA

Rustem
Adapted by Alfred J. Church

ILLUSTRATIONS

JASON SNATCHED OFF HIS HELMET AND HURLED IT (Frontispiece)

OUT FLEW A BRIGHT, SMILING FAIRY

HE CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS AND SPRANG INTO THE CHARIOT

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI

THE PRINCESS LABAM ... SHINES SO THAT SHE LIGHTS
UP ALL THE COUNTRY

HIAWATHA IN HIS CANOE

SO DANAE WAS COMFORTED AND WENT HOME WITH DICTYS

ORPHEUS SANG TILL HIS VOICE DROWNED THE SONG OF THE SIRENS

THEY LEAPT ACROSS THE POOL AND CAME TO HIM

THESEUS LOOKED UP INTO HER FAIR FACE

SIR GALAHAD

ROBIN HOOD IN AN ENCOUNTER

THE HERO'S SHINING SWORD PIERCED THE HEART OF THE MONSTER

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS FRIENDS

(Many of the illustrations in this volume are reproduced by special
permission of E.P. Dutton & Company, owners of American rights.)

INTRODUCTION

With such a table of contents in front of this little foreword, I am
quite sure that few will pause to consider my prosy effort. Nor can I
blame any readers who jump over my head, when they may sit beside kind
old Baucis, and drink out of her miraculous milk-pitcher, and hear
noble Philemon talk; or join hands with Pandora and Epimetheus in
their play before the fatal box was opened; or, in fact, be in the
company of even the most awe-inspiring of our heroes and heroines.

For ages the various characters told about in the following pages have
charmed, delighted, and inspired the people of the world. Like fairy
tales, these stories of gods, demigods, and wonderful men were
the natural offspring of imaginative races, and from generation
to generation they were repeated by father and mother to son and
daughter. And if a brave man had done a big deed he was immediately
celebrated in song and story, and quite as a matter of course, the
deed grew with repetition of these. Minstrels, gleemen, poets, and
skalds (a Scandinavian term for poets) took up these rich themes and
elaborated them. Thus, if a hero had killed a serpent, in time it
became a fiery dragon, and if he won a great battle, the enthusiastic
reciters of it had him do prodigious feats--feats beyond belief. But
do not fancy from this that the heroes were every-day persons. Indeed,
they were quite extraordinary and deserved highest praise of their
fellow-men.

So, in ancient and medieval Europe the wandering poet or minstrel
went from place to place repeating his wondrous narratives, adding
new verses to his tales, changing his episodes to suit locality or
occasion, and always skilfully shaping his fascinating romances. In
court and cottage he was listened to with breathless attention. He
might be compared to a living novel circulating about the country, for
in those days books were few or entirely unknown. Oriental countries,
too, had their professional story-spinners, while our American Indians
heard of the daring exploits of their heroes from the lips of old men
steeped in tradition. My youngest reader can then appreciate how myths
and legends were multiplied and their incidents magnified. We all know
how almost unconsciously we color and change the stories we repeat,
and naturally so did our gentle and gallant singers through the
long-gone centuries of chivalry and simple faith.

Every reader can feel the deep significance underlying the myths we
present--the poetry and imperishable beauty of the Greek, the strange
and powerful conceptions of the Scandinavian mind, the oddity and
fantasy of the Japanese, Slavs, and East Indians, and finally the
queer imaginings of our own American Indians. Who, for instance, could
ever forget poor Proserpina and the six pomegranate seeds, the death
of beautiful Baldur, the luminous Princess Labam, the stupid jellyfish
and shrewd monkey, and the funny way in which Hiawatha remade the
earth after it had been destroyed by flood?

Then take our legendary heroes: was ever a better or braver company
brought together--Perseus, Hercules, Siegfried, Roland, Galahad,
Robin Hood, and a dozen others? But stop, I am using too many
question-marks. There is no need to query heroes known and admired the
world over.

As true latter-day story-tellers, both Hawthorne and Kingsley retold
many of these myths and legends, and from their classic pages we have
adapted a number of our tales, and made them somewhat simpler and
shorter in form. By way of apology for this liberty (if some should
so consider it), we humbly offer a paragraph from a preface to the
"Wonder Book" written by its author:

"A great freedom of treatment was necessary but it will be observed
by every one who attempts to render these legends malleable in his
intellectual furnace, that they are marvelously independent of all
temporary modes and circumstances. They remain essentially the same,
after changes that would affect the identity of almost anything else."

Now to those who have not jumped over my head, or to those who, having
done so, may jump back to this foreword, I trust my few remarks will
have given some additional interest in our myths and heroes of lands
far and near.

DANIEL EDWIN WHEELER

MYTHS OF MANY COUNTRIES

MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

ADAPTED BY C.E. SMITH

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his wife Baucis sat
at their cottage door watching the sunset. They had eaten their supper
and were enjoying a quiet talk about their garden, and their cow, and
the fruit trees on which the pears and apples were beginning to ripen.
But their talk was very much disturbed by rude shouts and laughter
from the village children, and by the fierce barking of dogs.

"I fear," said Philemon, "that some poor traveler is asking for a bed
in the village, and that these rough people have set the dogs on him."

"Well, I never," answered old Baucis. "I do wish the neighbors would
be kinder to poor wanderers; I feel that some terrible punishment will
happen to this village if the people are so wicked as to make fun of
those who are tired and hungry. As for you and me, so long as we have
a crust of bread, let us always be willing to give half of it to any
poor homeless stranger who may come along."

"Indeed, that we will," said Philemon.

These old folks, you must know, were very poor, and had to work hard
for a living. They seldom had anything to eat except bread and milk,
and vegetables, with sometimes a little honey from their beehives, or
a few ripe pears and apples from their little garden. But they were
two of the kindest old people in the world, and would have gone
without their dinner any day, rather than refuse a slice of bread or a
cupful of milk to the weary traveler who might stop at the door.

Their cottage stood on a little hill a short way from the village,
which lay in a valley; such a pretty valley, shaped like a cup, with
plenty of green fields and gardens, and fruit trees; it was a pleasure
just to look at it. But the people who lived in this lovely place
were selfish and hard-hearted; they had no pity for the poor, and were
unkind to those who had no home, and they only laughed when Philemon
said it was right to be gentle to people who were sad and friendless.

These wicked villagers taught their children to be as bad as
themselves. They used to clap their hands and make fun of poor
travelers who were tramping wearily from one village to another, and
they even taught the dogs to snarl and bark at strangers if their
clothes were shabby. So the village was known far and near as an
unfriendly place, where neither help nor pity was to be found.

What made it worse, too, was that when rich people came in their
carriages, or riding on fine horses, with servants to attend to them,
the village people would take off their hats and be very polite and
attentive: and if the children were rude they got their ears boxed;
as to the dogs--if a single dog dared to growl at a rich man he was
beaten and then tied up without any supper.

So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke sadly when he heard
the shouts of the children, and the barking of the dogs, at the far
end of the village street.

He and Baucis sat shaking their heads while the noise came nearer and
nearer, until they saw two travelers coming along the road on foot.
A crowd of rude children were following them, shouting and throwing
stones, and several dogs were snarling at the travelers' heels.

They were both very plainly dressed, and looked as if they might not
have enough money to pay for a night's lodging.

"Come, wife," said Philemon, "let us go and meet these poor people and
offer them shelter."

"You go," said Baucis, "while I make ready some supper," and she
hastened indoors.

Philemon went down the road, and holding out his hand to the two men,
he said, "Welcome, strangers, welcome."

"Thank you," answered the younger of the two travelers. "Yours is a
kind welcome, very different from the one we got in the village; pray
why do you live in such a bad place?"

"I think," answered Philemon, "that Providence put me here just to
make up as best I can for other people's unkindness."

The traveler laughed heartily, and Philemon was glad to see him in
such good spirits. He took a good look at him and his companion. The
younger man was very thin, and was dressed in an odd kind of way.
Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak which was wrapped
tightly about him; and he had a cap on his head, the brim of which
stuck out over both ears. There was something queer too about his
shoes, but as it was getting dark, Philemon could not see exactly what
they were like.

One thing struck Philemon very much, the traveler was so wonderfully
light and active that it seemed as if his feet were only kept close to
the ground with difficulty. He had a staff in his hand which was the
oddest-looking staff Philemon had seen. It was made of wood and had a
little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes cut into the wood were
twisted round the staff, and these were so well carved that Philemon
almost thought he could see them wriggling.

The older man was very tall, and walked calmly along, taking no notice
either of naughty children or yelping dogs.

When they reached the cottage gate, Philemon said, "We are very poor
folk, but you are welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard. My wife
Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper."

They sat down on the bench, and the younger stranger let his staff
fall as he threw himself down on the grass, and then a strange thing
happened. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own
accord, and it opened a little pair of wings and half-hopped,
half-flew and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.

Philemon was so amazed that he feared he had been dreaming, but before
he could ask any questions, the elder stranger said: "Was there not a
lake long ago covering the spot where the village now stands?"

"Never in my day," said old Philemon, "nor in my father's, nor my
grandfather's: there were always fields and meadows just as there are
now, and I suppose there always will be."

"That I am not so sure of," replied the stranger. "Since the people in
that village have forgotten how to be loving and gentle, maybe it were
better that the lake should be rippling over the cottages again," and
he looked very sad and stern.

He was a very important-looking man, Philemon felt, even though his
clothes were old and shabby; maybe he was some great learned stranger
who did not care at all for money or clothes, and was wandering about
the world seeking wisdom and knowledge. Philemon was quite sure he
was not a common person. But he talked so kindly to Philemon, and
the younger traveler made such funny remarks, that they were all
constantly laughing.

"Pray, my young friend, what is your name?" Philemon asked.

"Well," answered the younger man, "I am called Mercury, because I am
so quick."

"What a strange name!" said Philemon; "and your friend, what is he
called?"

"You must ask the thunder to tell you that," said Mercury, "no other
voice is loud enough."

Philemon was a little confused at this answer, but the stranger looked
so kind and friendly that he began to tell them about his good old
wife, and what fine butter and cheese she made, and how happy they
were in their little garden; and how they loved each other very dearly
and hoped they might live together till they died. And the stern
stranger listened with a sweet smile on his face.

Baucis had now got supper ready; not very much of a supper, she told
them. There was only half a brown loaf and a bit of cheese, a pitcher
with some milk, a little honey, and a bunch of purple grapes. But she
said, "Had we only known you were coming, my goodman and I would have
gone without anything in order to give you a better supper."

"Do not trouble," said the elder stranger kindly. "A hearty welcome
is better than the finest of food, and we are so hungry that what you
have to offer us seems a feast." Then they all went into the cottage.

And now I must tell you something that will make your eyes open. You
remember that Mercury's staff was leaning against the cottage wall?
Well, when its owner went in at the door, what should this wonderful
staff do but spread its little wings and go hop-hop, flutter-flutter
up the steps; then it went tap-tap across the kitchen floor and did
not stop till it stood close behind Mercury's chair. No one noticed
this, as Baucis and her husband were too busy attending to their
guests.

Baucis filled up two bowls of milk from the pitcher, while her husband
cut the loaf and the cheese. "What delightful milk, Mother Baucis,"
said Mercury, "may I have some more? This has been such a hot day that
I am very thirsty."

"Oh dear, I am so sorry and ashamed," answered Baucis, "but the truth
is there is hardly another drop of milk in the pitcher."

"Let me see," said Mercury, starting up and catching hold of the
handles, "why here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." He poured
out a bowlful for himself and another for his companion. Baucis could
scarcely believe her eyes. "I suppose I must have made a mistake," she
thought, "at any rate the pitcher must be empty now after filling both
bowls twice over."

"Excuse me, my kind hostess," said Mercury in a little while, "but
your milk is so good that I should very much like another bowlful."

Now Baucis was perfectly sure that the pitcher was empty, and in order
to show Mercury that there was not another drop in it, she held it
upside down over his bowl. What was her surprise when a stream of
fresh milk fell bubbling into the bowl and overflowed on to the table,
and the two snakes that were twisted round Mercury's staff stretched
out their heads and began to lap it up.

"And now, a slice of your brown loaf, pray Mother Baucis, and a little
honey," asked Mercury.

Baucis handed the loaf, and though it had been rather a hard and dry
loaf when she and her husband ate some at tea-time, it was now as soft
and new as if it had just come from the oven. As to the honey, it had
become the color of new gold and had the scent of a thousand flowers,
and the small grapes in the bunch had grown larger and richer, and
each one seemed bursting with ripe juice.

Although Baucis was a very simple old woman, she could not help
thinking that there was something rather strange going on. She sat
down beside Philemon and told him in a whisper what she had seen.

"Did you ever hear anything so wonderful?" she asked.

"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "I fear you have
been in a dream, my dear old wife."

He knew Baucis could not say what was untrue, but he thought that she
had not noticed how much milk there had really been in the pitcher
at first. So when Mercury once more asked for a little milk, Philemon
rose and lifted the pitcher himself. He peeped in and saw that there
was not a drop in it; then all at once a little white fountain gushed
up from the bottom, and the pitcher was soon filled to the brim
with delicious milk.

Philemon was so amazed that he nearly let the jug fall. "Who are ye,
wonder-working strangers?" he cried.

"Your guests, good Philemon, and your friends," answered the elder
traveler, "and may the pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and
yourself any more than for the hungry traveler."

The old people did not like to ask any more questions; they gave the
guests their own sleeping-room, and then they lay down on the hard
floor in the kitchen. It was long before they fell asleep, not because
they thought how hard their bed was, but because there was so much to
whisper to each other about the wonderful strangers and what they had
done.

They all rose with the sun next morning. Philemon begged the visitors
to stay a little till Baucis should milk the cow and bake some bread
for breakfast. But the travelers seemed to be in a hurry and wished
to start at once, and they asked Baucis and Philemon to go with them a
short distance to show them the way.

So they all four set out together, and Mercury was so full of fun and
laughter, and made them feel so happy and bright, that they would have
been glad to keep him in their cottage every day and all day long.

"Ah me," said Philemon, "if only our neighbors knew what a pleasure
it was to be kind to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs and
never allow the children to fling another stone."

"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so," said Baucis, "and I
mean to go this very day and tell some of them how wicked they are."

"I fear," said Mercury, smiling, "that you will not find any of them
at home."

The old people looked at the elder traveler and his face had grown
very grave and stern. "When men do not feel towards the poorest
stranger as if he were a brother," he said, in a deep, grave voice,
"they are not worthy to remain on the earth, which was made just to be
the home for the whole family of the human race of men and women and
children."

"And, by the bye," said Mercury, with a look of fun and mischief in
his eyes, "where is this village you talk about? I do not see anything
of it."

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where at sunset only
the day before they had seen the trees and gardens, and the houses,
and the streets with the children playing in them. But there was no
longer any sign of the village. There was not even a valley. Instead,
they saw a broad lake which filled all the great basin from brim to
brim, and whose waters glistened and sparkled in the morning sun.

The village that had been there only yesterday was now gone!

"Alas! what has become of our poor neighbors?" cried the kind-hearted
old people.

"They are not men and women any longer," answered the elder traveler,
in a deep voice like distant thunder. "There was no beauty and no use
in lives such as theirs, for they had no love for one another, and no
pity in their hearts for those who were poor and weary. Therefore the
lake that was here in the old, old days has flowed over them, and they
will be men and women no more."

"Yes," said Mercury, with his mischievous smile, "these foolish people
have all been changed into fishes because they had cold blood which
never warmed their hearts, just as the fishes have."

"As for you, good Philemon, and you, kind Baucis," said the elder
traveler, "you, indeed, gave a hearty welcome to the homeless
strangers. You have done well, my dear old friends, and whatever wish
you have most at heart will be granted."

Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then I do not know
which spoke, but it seemed as if the voice came from them both. "Let
us live together while we live, and let us die together, at the same
time, for we have always loved one another."

"Be it so," said the elder stranger, and he held out his hands as if
to bless them. The old couple bent their heads and fell on their knees
to thank him, and when they lifted their eyes again, neither Mercury
nor his companion was to be seen.

So Philemon and Baucis returned to the cottage, and to every traveler
who passed that way they offered a drink of milk from the wonderful
pitcher, and if the guest was a kind, gentle soul, he found the milk
the sweetest and most refreshing he had ever tasted. But if a cross,
bad-tempered fellow took even a sip, he found the pitcher full of sour
milk, which made him twist his face with dislike and disappointment.