than the god, his friend, could
Hyacinthus throw, and always his merry laugh when he succeeded made
the god feel that nor man nor god could ever grow old. And so there
came that day, fore-ordained by the Fates, when Apollo and Hyacinthus
played a match together. Hyacinthus made a valiant throw, and Apollo
took his place, and cast the discus high and far. Hyacinthus ran
forward eager to measure the distance, shouting with excitement over a
throw that had indeed been worthy of a god. Thus did Zephyrus gain his
opportunity. Swiftly through the tree-tops ran the murmuring South
Wind, and smote the discus of Apollo with a cruel hand. Against the
forehead of Hyacinthus it dashed, smiting the locks that lay upon it,
crashing through skin and flesh and bone, felling him to the earth.
Apollo ran towards him and raised him in his arms. But the head of
Hyacinthus fell over on the god's shoulder, like the head of a lily
whose stem is broken. The red blood gushed to the ground, an
unquenchable stream, and darkness fell on the eyes of Hyacinthus, and,
with the flow of his life's blood, his gallant young soul passed away.

"Would that I could die for thee, Hyacinthus!" cried the god, his
god's heart near breaking. "I have robbed thee of thy youth. Thine is
the suffering, mine the crime. I shall sing thee ever--oh perfect
friend! And evermore shalt thou live as a flower that will speak to
the hearts of men of spring, of everlasting youth--of life that lives
forever."

As he spoke, there sprang from the blood-drops at his feet a cluster
of flowers, blue as the sky in spring, yet hanging their heads as if
in sorrow.[4]

[Illustration: DARKNESS FELL ON THE EYES OF HYACINTHUS]

And still, when winter is ended, and the song of birds tell us of the
promise of spring, if we go to the woods, we find traces of the vow of
the sun-god. The trees are budding in buds of rosy hue, the willow
branches are decked with silvery catkins powdered with gold. The
larches, like slender dryads, wear a feathery garb of tender green,
and under the trees of the woods the primroses look up, like fallen
stars. Along the woodland path we go, treading on fragrant
pine-needles and on the beech leaves of last year that have not yet
lost their radiant amber. And, at a turn of the way, the sun-god
suddenly shines through the great dark branches of the giants of the
forest, and before us lies a patch of exquisite blue, as though a god
had robbed the sky and torn fr