Medea, seeing that he knew not fear, gave him a magic ointment which should give him the strength of seven men and protect him from fire and steel.
All the people a.s.sembled at sunrise in the field of Ares. When the fire-breathing bulls saw Jason standing in the middle of the field, fury shot from their eyes. Fierce was their onset and the mult.i.tude waited breathless to see what the end would be. As the bulls came on with lowered heads, and tails in air, Jason leaped nimbly to one side, and the monsters shot past him with bellowings that shook the earth. They turned and Jason poised for the leap. As they pa.s.sed a second time, he grasped the nearest by the horn and lightly vaulted upon its back. The bull, unused to the burden, sank cowering to the ground. Jason patted its neck caressing it, and gladly it shared the yoke with its fellow.
When the ground was ploughed and sown with the teeth of the serpent, a thousand warriors sprang full-armed from the brown earth. Then King aeetes greatly rejoiced, but Medea, trembling at the sight, laid a spell upon them that they might not clearly distinguish friend from foe.
One among them came forth and Jason advanced to meet him, walking with a halt. His adversary laughed aloud, but Jason with a mighty bound sprang upon the shoulders of his enemy and bore him helmetless to the ground.
The hero quickly replaced the fallen helmet with his own, giving a golden helmet for a brazen. The other rose and fled back among his fellows who, thinking it was Jason come among them, fell upon and slew him and strove with each other for the golden helmet until all were slain but one who, wounded unto death, rose up from the fray and shouting "Victory" sank upon knee and elbow never to rise again.
The rest of the task was quickly accomplished, for Medea by her spells cast a deep sleep upon the dragon. So the Golden Fleece was won and brought once more to Iolchos with a prize still more precious, for Jason bore home with him Medea, the beautiful witch maiden, who became his bride and ruled with him, let us hope, many happy years.
JOHN WAUGH
In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the G.o.ds see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house, where G.o.ds may dwell, Beautiful, entire and clean.
LONGFELLOW
THE MINSTREL-BOY
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you"ll find him; His father"s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Tho" all the world betrays thee, _One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, _One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! but the foeman"s chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne"er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said: "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery."
MOORE
Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside.
LOWELL
MARY ELIZABETH
Mary Elizabeth was a little girl with a long name. She was poor, she was sick, she was ragged, she was dirty, she was cold, she was hungry, she was frightened. She had no home, she had no mother, she had no father.
She had no supper, she had had no dinner, she had had no breakfast. She had no place to go and n.o.body to care where she went.
In fact, Mary Elizabeth had not much of anything but a short pink calico dress, a little red cotton-and-wool shawl, and her long name. Besides this, she had a pair of old rubbers, too large for her.
She was walking up Washington Street. It was late in the afternoon of a bitter January day.
"G.o.d made so many people," thought Mary Elizabeth, "He must have made so many suppers. Seems as if there"d ought to be one for one extry little girl."
But she thought this in a gentle way. She was a very gentle little girl.
All girls who hadn"t anything were not like Mary Elizabeth.
So now she was shuffling up Washington Street, not knowing exactly what to do next,--peeping into people"s faces, timidly looking away from them, heart-sick (for a very little girl can be very heart-sick), colder, she thought, every minute, and hungrier each hour than she was the hour before.
The child left Washington Street at last, where everybody had homes and suppers without one extra one to spare for a little girl, and turned into a short, bright, showy street, where stood a great hotel.
Whether the door-keeper was away, or busy, or sick, or careless, or whether the head-waiter at the dining-room was so tall that he couldn"t see so short a beggar, or whether the clerk at the desk was so noisy that he couldn"t hear so still a beggar, or however it was, Mary Elizabeth did get in; by the door-keeper, past the head-waiter, under the shadow of the clerk, over the smooth, slippery marble floor the child crept on.
She came to the office door and stood still. She looked around her with wide eyes. She had never seen a place like that. Lights flashed over it, many and bright. Gentlemen sat in it smoking and reading. They were all warm. Not one of them looked as if he had had no dinner and no breakfast and no supper.
"How many extry suppers," thought the little girl, "it must ha" taken to feed "em all. I guess maybe there"ll be one for me in here."
Mary Elizabeth stood in the middle of it, in her pink calico dress and red plaid shawl. The shawl was tied over her head and about her neck with a ragged tippet. Her bare feet showed in the old rubbers. She began to shuffle about the room, holding out one purple little hand.
One or two of the gentlemen laughed; some frowned; more did nothing at all; most did not notice, or did not seem to notice, the child. One said: "What"s the matter here?"
Mary Elizabeth shuffled on. She went from one to the other, less timidly; a kind of desperation had taken possession of her. The odours from the dining-room came in, of strong, hot coffee, and strange roast meats. Mary Elizabeth thought of Jo.
It seemed to her she was so hungry that, if she could not get a supper, she should jump up and run and rush about and s.n.a.t.c.h something and steal like Jo. She held out her hand, but only said: "I"m hungry!"
A gentleman called her. He was the gentleman who had asked: "What"s the matter here?" He called her in behind his daily paper which was big enough to hide three of Mary Elizabeth, and when he saw that n.o.body was looking he gave her a five-cent piece in a hurry, as if he had committed a sin, and said quickly: "There, there, child! go now, go!"
Then he began to read his newspaper quite hard and fast and to look severe, as one does who never gives anything to beggars, as a matter of principle.
But n.o.body else gave anything to Mary Elizabeth. She shuffled from one to another, hopelessly. Every gentleman shook his head. One called for a waiter to put her out. This frightened her and she stood still.
Over by a window, in a lonely corner of the great room, a young man was sitting apart from the others. He sat with his elbows on the table and his face buried in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, with brown, curling hair.
Mary Elizabeth wondered why he looked so miserable and why he sat alone.
She thought, perhaps, that if he weren"t so happy as the other gentlemen, he would be more sorry for cold and hungry girls. She hesitated, then walked along and directly up to him.
One or two gentlemen laid down their papers and watched this; they smiled and nodded to each other. The child did not see them to wonder why. She went up and put her hand upon the young man"s arm.
He started. The brown, curly head lifted itself from the shelter of his arms; a young face looked sharply at the beggar girl,--a beautiful young face it might have been.
It was haggard now and dreadful to look at,--bloated and badly marked with the unmistakable marks of a wicked week"s debauch. He roughly said:
"What do you want?"
"I"m hungry," said Mary Elizabeth.