as a
magic in his voice which held the listeners spellbound. The last rays of
the setting sun played about his golden curls, and lit up his sweet,
childish face, as he sang:--

"Why should you grieve for me, my love,
When I am laid to rest?
Our lives are shaped by the gods above,
And they know best.
What though I stand on the farther shore,
Others have crossed the stream before--
Why weep in vain?
Life is but a drop in the deep,
Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
And meet again."

As the last note died away, a sigh came from the listeners; some of the
women turned away their faces, and the young men began to talk hastily, as
if to hide their emotion.

Periander waited until the group began to break up. Then he stepped
forward and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy looked up with a
smile.

"What is your name, my fair minstrel?" asked Periander.

"My name is Arion," answered the boy, as if he were used to being
questioned. "I come from Methymna beyond the hills, where I used to tend
the goats." And he told Periander that his mother and father died before
he could remember, and that he was brought up by an old goat-herd; until a
traveling minstrel, who happened one day to hear him singing on the hills,
took charge of him and taught him to play the lute.

"That was one of his own songs I was singing," said Arion. "He always
liked me to sing his songs; but, when I am a man, I shall make my own
songs, and sing them in the great cities over the sea."

"And so you shall," said Periander. "Now, listen to me, Arion! Some day,
perhaps, I also may be a great man, able to help you to become a great
singer. Remember, when you have need of a friend, that Periander of
Corinth will help you, if he can!"

And, when he departed, Periander left a sum of money with a worthy old
couple, who promised to look after the boy, and see that he wanted
nothing.

After some years, Periander became king of Corinth, and having a love of
everything beautiful, he soon gathered about him a little band of poets,
artists, and musicians. One day, when he was listening to one of the court
musicians, something--it might have been a chord in the music--reminded
him of the little Lesbian Arion. He seemed to see once more the boy with
the golden light on his curls, and the upturned faces of the peasants
grouped around him; and the very words of the song ran in his head.

"By Apollo!" he cried, so suddenl