at 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 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 beautifulest 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 be