he
strange hand upon the reins,--the slender weight in the chariot. They
turned their wild eyes upon Phaethon, to his secret foreboding, and
neighed one to another. This was no master charioteer, but a mere lad, a
feather riding the wind. It was holiday for the horses of the Sun, and
away they went.

Grasping the reins that dragged him after, like an enemy, Phaethon looked
down from the fearful ascent and saw the Earth far beneath him, dim and
fair. He was blind with dizziness and bewilderment. His hold slackened and
the horses redoubled their speed, wild with new liberty. They left the old
tracks. Before he knew where he was, they had startled the constellations
and well-nigh grazed the Serpent, so that it woke from its torpor and
hissed.

The steeds took fright. This way and that they went, terrified by the
monsters they had never encountered before, shaking out of their silver
quiet the cool stars towards the north, then fleeing as far to the south
among new wonders. The heavens were full of terror.

Up, far above the clouds, they went, and down again, towards the
defenseless Earth, that could not flee from the chariot of the Sun. Great
rivers hid themselves in the ground, and mountains were consumed. Harvests
perished like a moth that is singed in a candle-flame.

In vain did Phaethon call to the horses and pull upon the reins. As in a
hideous dream, he saw his own Earth, his beautiful home and the home of
all men, his kindred, parched by the fires of this mad chariot, and
blackening beneath him. The ground cracked open and the sea shrank.
Heedless water-nymphs, who had lingered in the shallows, were left gasping
like bright fishes. The dryads shrank, and tried to cover themselves from
the scorching heat. The poor Earth lifted her withered face in a last
prayer to Zeus to save her if he might.

Then Zeus, calling all the Gods to witness that there was no other means
of safety, hurled his thunderbolt; and Phaethon knew no more.

His body fell through the heavens, aflame like a shooting star; and the
horses of the Sun dashed homeward with the empty chariot.

Poor Clymene grieved sore over the boy's death; but the young Heliades,
daughters of the Sun, refused all comfort. Day and night they wept
together about their brother's grave by the river, until the Gods took
pity and changed them all into poplar-trees. And ever after that they wept
sweet tears of amber, clear as sunlight.

NIOBE

By Josephine Pr