the golden wheat-ears; "the angel of
the storm is coming; he will strike you down."

"I will not bend my head," said the buckwheat.

Then the old willow-tree spoke: "Close your flowers and bend your leaves.
Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even men cannot do
that; the sight of heaven would strike them blind. Much less can we who
are so inferior to them!"

"'Inferior,' indeed!" said the buckwheat. "Now I _will_ look!" And he
looked straight up, while the lightning flashed across the sky.

When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the wheat raised their
drooping heads, clean and refreshed in the pure, sweet air. The
willow-tree shook the gentle drops from its leaves.

But the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, scorched black by the
lightning.

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Old Greek Folk-Stories_, by Josephine Preston
Peabody. (Harrap & Co. 9d.)]

The Greek God Pan, the god of the open air, was a great musician. He
played on a pipe of reeds. And the sound of his reed-pipe was so sweet
that he grew proud, and believed himself greater than the chief musician
of the gods, Apollo, the sun-god. So he challenged great Apollo to make
better music than he.

Apollo consented to the test, for he wished to punish Pan's vanity, and
they chose the mountain Tmolus for judge, since no one is so old and wise
as the hills.

When Pan and Apollo came before Tmolus, to play, their followers came
with them, to hear, and one of those who came with Pan was a mortal named
Midas.

First Pan played; he blew on his reed-pipe, and out came a tune so wild
and yet so coaxing that the birds hopped from the trees to get near; the
squirrels came running from their holes; and the very trees swayed as if
they wanted to dance. The fauns laughed aloud for joy as the melody
tickled their furry little ears. And Midas thought it the sweetest music
in the world.

Then Apollo rose. His hair shook drops of light from its curls; his robes
were like the edge of the sunset cloud; in his hands he held a golden
lyre. And when he touched the strings of the lyre, such music stole upon
the air as never god nor mortal heard before. The wild creatures of the
wood crouched still as stone; the trees kept every leaf from rustling;
earth and air were silent as a dream. To hear such music cease was like
bidding farewell to father and mother.

When the charm was broken, the hearers fell at Apollo's feet