IN THE SKY

In the days when the Olympians still walked at times among men, Zeus and Poseidon and Hermes once found themselves benighted in a lonely region of the rough Bœotian country.

As darkness fell, they passed a little hut by the roadside. The farmer stood in the doorway, enjoying the cool of the evening after his day's toil; and seeing the wayfarers plodding along, he invited them in to pass the night.

"My house is poor enough," said he, "but such as it is, it is yours."

The three gods entered. The farmer, Hyrieus by name, set food and drink before them, waited upon them, gave up his own pallet to make them comfortable and entertained these nameless wanderers like distinguished guests, all with the utmost simplicity and good feeling.

The Olympians were touched by this rough herdsman's fine hospitality. They consulted together in whispers when they had finished their meal.

Then: "Is there anything you wish for, host?" enquired Hermes as spokesman.

Hyrieus started. "Well," said he, "of course there is, but that's past mending."

"What is it?" persisted Hermes.

"I had a wife," said the herdsman, "whom I loved so that when she died I vowed never to marry again. So all these years I have lived alone, and alone I shall live till the end. Yet a man cannot help wishing for a son to drive away the loneliness of the winter evenings and to be a prop to him in his old age. Probably you will laugh at me for a foolish person: for I mean to keep my vow, and yet I wish for a son."

"Those who know do not laugh at honesty," replied Hermes. "And I say to you that he who gives all freely never fails to receive. I noticed that you killed your only ox to provide meat for our meal: bring me his hide."

Hyrieus stared at him, doubtful. He feared he was being made the butt of some jest. But the stranger's open smile promised something quite different. Much wondering, he went out into the darkness and after a while returned with the hide of the ox which he had sacrificed to hospitality. He did not regret the act, but he could not help thinking of the morrow as he handled the still warm skin of this faithful companion and servant. What would he do without its aid? And what did this mysterious person mean by his odd request? He spoke as a man having authority, however, and there was nothing for it save to obey and see what might befall.

Hermes took the hide, and bade him fetch a spade. The three mysterious visitors went out into the night. Hyrieus, peering out after them, saw them bury the ox skin in front of his house, with strange and secret

ceremonies. Without knowing why, he trembled. He trembled still more when they returned, for the strangers seemed to have become suddenly majestic, awe-inspiring.

The bearded one, who had not spoken hitherto, looked solemnly upon the herdsman. Instinctively the Bœotian fell into an attitude of worship.

"You shall have your wish," announced this one, in tones that filled the low-raftered room like a mighty wind. "Next spring you shall have a son—and such a son as mortal never yet had."

The three retired for the night. When Hyrieus woke, as usual, with the dawn, they had disappeared. He went about his labors, sorely increased by the loss of his ox, pondering deeply on what had occurred. Many a time he looked at the little patch of freshly-turned earth, but something forbade him to investigate. And then the fall rains came and obliterated the spot; and the winter snows covered all; and everything was as it had been, save for the insistent recollection in the farmer's heart. Many times he laughed at his folly; yet in the still evenings as he sat before his fire, he knew that he expected—something.

Winter passed at length. Spring painted the hills with yellow and white and pink blossoms. And its soft unfolding promises seemed to reinforce that secret hope, which defied reason, and which persisted in the heart of Hyrieus. As he sat outdoors in the long twilight evenings, instead of crouching close to his scanty fire, every sound of the reawakening earth had a new meaning. Even the still white calm of

snow-capped Parnassus, far to the west, seemed to presage some great happening. For the first time since his youth he really heard the shrill voices of the frogs in the neighboring marsh: it was as if even these tiny creatures were repeating the promise made him by his mysterious visitors. And then he would smile sadly at his senile credulity and, remembering the reality of the morrow's hard work, would plod stiffly into his solitary hut and seek on his pallet bed that dream land where all things are possible.

One morning he rose with even more than his usual reluctance to exchange for the hard grubbing reality the vague but delightful fancies which had filled the night. Force of habit made him swallow a few mouthfuls of his coarse breakfast. Mechanically he stepped outside towards the day's work that awaited him.

The sun was just rising over the low ridge that thrust itself into the bend of the Asopus River. Instinctively his gaze went towards the spot where the strange trio had performed their mysterious rites, past which gurgled a little stream.

He stopped short, startled out of his dreamy reverie. His eyes rounded in astonishment.

That spot of earth had remained bare, though all around it the lush grass and many-colored flowers had woven an intricate tapestry. It was this strange fact which had continually reinforced his wonder and his superstitious belief.

But overnight a sudden transformation had taken place. The whole space was one mass of asphodels in full bloom. The sun's level rays fell upon their

white blossoms, amid which the meandering threads of crimson looked like blazing hieroglyphics.

Hyrieus looked in bewilderment, mixed with a kind of awe. Slowly he advanced towards this bed of blossoms which had appeared so suddenly. Then he cried out.

For there, cradled in the asphodels, lay a babe—such a child as his eyes had never yet beheld. Shapely and beautiful, and of such size as made one think of the Heroes of legend, he slept peacefully.

Overcoming his timidity at last, Hyrieus gently picked up the sleeping infant. When the big blue eyes opened and a sleepy smile came over the child's face, the honest farmer's heart overflowed with joy at this realization of his wildest dreams. Marveling again at the weight of his burden, he took this earth-born son into his cottage, laid him on his own bed, and sat watching his slumber in a sort of ecstacy. From that time he was father and mother both to the child, carrying it with him when he went about his necessary labor afield, and watching over it with an anxious care into which his whole existence seemed concentrated.

The boy was well worth these pains and pride. He never cried; and he seemed perfectly happy and contented when couched in a nest of soft grass and dry leaves under the open sky, where his foster-father, as he toiled, could keep an eye on him. Moreover, the youngster grew like some sturdy young bull. He had no teething troubles; presently he was eating the same food that served Hyrieus himself—with all the

choicest portions for his share; and he found his legs almost as quickly as a young partridge.

In fact, by the time when ordinary children are beginning to toddle uncertainly, this boy, whom Hyrieus had named Orion, was as tall as his foster-father. Nor did he cease his prodigious growth when he reached the ordinary limits of mankind: not even Otus and Ephialtes, who rebelled against the gods and strove to set Mt. Ossa upon Pelion that they might scale Olympus itself,—not even these gigantic