ring destruction. Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented.
"Go," said he, "to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its
fountain-head, there plunge in your head and body and wash away your
fault and its punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the
waters before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river
sands became changed into _gold_, as they remain to this day.

Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country and
became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On a certain occasion
Pan had the temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to
challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill. The challenge was
accepted; and Tmolus, the mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took
his seat and cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given
signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great
satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to
be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the sun-god, and all his
trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with Parnassian
laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In his left
hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the strings.
Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god
of the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented,
and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would not suffer such a
depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the human form, but caused them
to increase in length, grow hairy within and without, and to become
movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of those
of an ass.

Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself
with the thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he
attempted to do by means of an ample turban or headdress. But his
hairdresser of course knew the secret. He was charged not to mention it,
and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he
found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went
out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down,
whispered the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds
sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began
whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to this,
with every breeze which passes over the place.

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