s with which nature has endowed me; and then I might have my
nap out, in peace and comfort!"

But Cousin Eustace, as I think I have hinted before, was as fond of
telling his stories as the children of hearing them. His mind was in a
free and happy state, and took delight in its own activity, and
scarcely required any external impulse to set it at work.

How different is this spontaneous play of the intellect from the
trained diligence of maturer years, when toil has perhaps grown easy
by long habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the
day's comfort, although the rest of the matter has bubbled away! This
remark, however, is not meant for the children to hear.

Without further solicitation, Eustace Bright proceeded to tell the
following really splendid story. It had come into his mind as he lay
looking upward into the depths of a tree, and observing how the touch
of Autumn had transmuted every one of its green leaves into what
resembled the purest gold. And this change, which we have all of us
witnessed, is as wonderful as anything that Eustace told about in the
story of Midas.

THE GOLDEN TOUCH

[Illustration]

Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides,
whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but
myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have
entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I
choose to call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world.
He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that
precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was
the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's
footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he
desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best
thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath
her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been
heaped together since the world was made. Thus, he gave all his
thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to
gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished
that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into
his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of
buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "Poh, poh, child! If these
flowers were as golden as they look, they would be