The Wood-Folk [Old Greek Folk Stories Told Anew]
PAN led a merrier life than all the other gods together. He was beloved alike by shepherds and countrymen, and by the fauns and satyrs, birds and beasts, of his own kingdom. The care of flocks and herds was his, and for home he had all the world of woods and waters; he was lord of everything out-of-doors! Yet he felt the burden of it no more than he felt the shadow of a leaf when he danced, but spent the days in laughter and music among his fellows. Like him, the fauns and satyrs had furry, pointed ears, and little horns that sprouted above their brows; in fact, they were all enough like wild creatures to seem no strangers to anything untamed. They slept in the sun, piped in the shade, and lived on wild grapes and the nuts that every squirrel was ready to share with them.
The woods were
never lonely. A man might wander away into those solitudes and think himself
friendless; but here and there a river knew, and a tree could tell, a story of
its own. Beautiful creatures they were, that for one reason or another had left
off human shape. Some had been transformed against their will, that they might
do no more harm to their fellow-men. Some were changed through the pity of the
gods, that they might share the simple life of Pan, mindless of mortal cares,
glad in rain and sunshine, and always close to the heart of the Earth.
There was Dryope,
for instance, the lotus-tree. Once a careless, happy woman, walking among the
trees with her sister Iole and her own baby, she had broken a lotus that held a
live nymph hidden, and blood dripped from the wounded plant. Too late, Dryope
saw her heedlessness; and there her steps had taken root, and there she had
said good-bye to her child, and prayed Iole to bring him sometimes to play
beneath her shadow. Poor mother-tree! Perhaps she took comfort with the birds
and gave a kindly shelter to some nest.
There, too, was
Echo, once a wood-nymph who angered the goddess Juno with her waste of words,
and was compelled now to wait till others spoke, and then to say nothing but
their last word, like any mocking-bird. One day she saw and loved the youth
Narcissus, who was searching the woods for his hunting companions. "Come
hither!" he called, and Echo cried "Hither!" eager to speak at
last. "Here am I,—come!" he repeated, looking about for the voice.
"I come," said Echo, and she stood before him. But the youth, angry
at such mimicry, only stared at her and hastened away. From that time she faded
to a voice, and to this day she lurks hidden and silent till you call.
But Narcissus
himself was destined to fall in love with a shadow. For, leaning over the edge
of a brook one day, he saw his own beautiful face looking up at him like a water-nymph.
He leaned nearer, and the face rose towards him, but when he touched the
surface it was gone in a hundred ripples. Day after day he besought the lovely
creature to have pity and to speak; but it mocked him with his own tears and
smiles, and he forgot all else, until he changed into a flower that leans over
to see its image in the pool.
There, too, was the
sunflower Clytie, once a maiden who thought nothing so beautiful as the sun-god
Phœbus Apollo. All the day long she used to look after him as he journeyed
across the heavens in his golden chariot, until she came to be a fair rooted
plant that ever turns its head to watch the sun.
Many like were
there. Daphne the laurel, Hyacinthus (once a beautiful youth, slain by
mischance), who lives and renews his bloom as a flower,—these and a hundred
others. The very weeds were friendly. . . .
But there were
wise, immortal voices in certain caves and trees. Men called them Oracles; for
here the gods spoke in answer to the prayers of folk in sorrow or bewilderment.
Sometimes they built a temple around such a befriending voice, and kings would
journey far to hear it speak.
As for Pan, only
one grief had he, and in the end a glad thing came of it.
One day, when he
was loitering in Arcadia, he saw the beautiful wood-nymph Syrinx. She was
hastening to join Diana at the chase, and she herself was as swift and lovely
as any bright bird that one longs to capture. So Pan thought, and he hurried
after to tell her. But Syrinx turned, caught one glimpse of the god's shaggy
locks and bright eyes, and the two little horns on his head (he was much like a
wild thing, at a look), and she sprang away down the path in terror.
Begging her to
listen, Pan followed; and Syrinx, more and more frightened by the patter of his
hoofs, never heeded him, but went as fast as light till she came to the brink
of the river. Only then she paused, praying her friends, the water-nymphs, for
some way of escape. The gentle, bewildered creatures, looking up through the
water, could think of but one device.
Just as the god
overtook Syrinx and stretched out his arms to her, she vanished like a mist,
and he found himself grasping a cluster of tall reeds. Poor Pan!
The breeze that
sighed whenever he did—and oftener—shook the reeds and made a sweet little
sound,—a sudden music. Pan heard it, half consoled.
"Is it your
voice, Syrinx?" he said. "Shall we sing together?"
He bound a number
of reeds side by side; to this day, shepherds know how. He blew across the
hollow pipes and they made music!
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