worth the
plucking!"

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of
this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for
flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and
beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt.
These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and
as fragrant, as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them,
and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it
was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of
the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he
once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears,
which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor
Midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they
take care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object
that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large
portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at
the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To
this dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon--Midas
betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. Here,
after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or
a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a
peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of
the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the
dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but
that his treasure would not shine without its help. And then would he
reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it
came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny
image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of
the cup; and whisper to himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a
happy man art thou!" But it was laughable to see how the image of his
face kept grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. It
seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty
inclination to make fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite
so happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be
reached, unless the