gentle child, and promised to come to
him again, and departed. But, in after years, that child took higher
flights upon the aerial steed than ever did Bellerophon, and achieved
more honorable deeds than his friend's victory over the Chimaera. For,
gentle and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet!

[Illustration]

BALD SUMMIT

[Illustration]

AFTER THE STORY

Eustace Bright told the legend of Bellerophon with as much fervor and
animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged
horse. At the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing
countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested.
All their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of Primrose.
In her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of
something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough
to feel. Child's story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe
through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative
enterprise of youth.

"I forgive you, now, Primrose," said he, "for all your ridicule of
myself and my stories. One tear pays for a great deal of laughter."

"Well, Mr. Bright," answered Primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him
another of her mischievous smiles, "it certainly does elevate your
ideas, to get your head above the clouds. I advise you never to tell
another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a
mountain."

"Or from the back of Pegasus," replied Eustace, laughing. "Don't you
think that I succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?"

"It was so like one of your madcap pranks!" cried Primrose, clapping
her hands. "I think I see you now on his back, two miles high, and
with your head downward! It is well that you have not really an
opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our
sober Davy, or Old Hundred."

"For my part, I wish I had Pegasus here, at this moment," said the
student. "I would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country,
within a circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my
brother-authors. Dr. Dewey would be within my reach, at the foot of
Taconic. In Stockbridge, yonder, is Mr. James, conspicuous to all the
world on his mountain-pile of history and romance. Longfellow, I
believe, is not yet at the Ox-bow, else the winged horse would neigh
at the sight of him. But, here in Lenox, I should find our most
truthful novelist, who has made the scenery