BELLEROPHON AT THE FOVNTAIN]

"And have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked Bellerophon of
the girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went
on. "You certainly could see Pegasus, if anybody can, for your eyes
are very bright."

"Once I thought I saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a
blush. "It was either Pegasus, or a large white bird, a very great way
up in the air. And one other time, as I was coming to the fountain
with my pitcher, I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh
as that was! My very heart leaped with delight at the sound. But it
startled me, nevertheless; so that I ran home without filling my
pitcher."

"That was truly a pity!" said Bellerophon.

And he turned to the child, whom I mentioned at the beginning of the
story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at
strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open.

"Well, my little fellow," cried Bellerophon, playfully pulling one of
his curls, "I suppose you have often seen the winged horse."

"That I have," answered the child, very readily. "I saw him yesterday,
and many times before."

"You are a fine little man!" said Bellerophon, drawing the child
closer to him. "Come, tell me all about it."

"Why," replied the child, "I often come here to sail little boats in
the fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. And
sometimes, when I look down into the water, I see the image of the
winged horse, in the picture of the sky that is there. I wish he would
come down, and take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the
moon! But, if I so much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out
of sight."

And Bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of
Pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so
melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only
in cart-horses, or in the old man who had forgotten the beautiful
things of his youth.

Therefore, he haunted about the Fountain of Pirene for a great many
days afterwards. He kept continually on the watch, looking upward at
the sky, or else down into the water, hoping forever that he should
see either the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvelous
reality. He held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit,
always ready in his hand. The rustic people, who dwelt in the
neighborhood, and drove their cattle to the fountain to drink, would
often laugh at poor Bellero