angry with Aristaeus, and as punishment they slew his bees. His
hives stood empty and silent, and no more did "the murmuring of
innumerable bees" drowse the ears of the herds who watched their
flocks cropping the red clover and the asphodel of the meadows.

Underneath the swift-flowing water of a deep river, the nymph who was
the mother of Aristaeus sat on her throne. Fishes darted round her
white feet, and beside her sat her attendants, spinning the fine
strong green cords that twine themselves round the throats of those
who perish when their arms can no longer fight against the force of
the rushing current. A nymph sang as she worked, an old, old song,
that told one of the old, old tales of man's weakness and the power of
the creatures of water, but above her song those who listened heard a
man's voice, calling loudly and pitifully.

The voice was that of Aristaeus, calling aloud for his mother. Then his
mother gave command, and the waters of the river rolled asunder and
let Aristaeus pass down far below to where the fountains of the great
rivers lie. A mighty roar of many waters dinned in his ears as the
rivers started on the race that was to bring them all at last to their
restless haven, the Ocean. To Cyrene he came at length, and to her
told his sorrowful tale:

"To men who live their little lives and work and die as I
myself--though son of a nymph and of a god--must do," he said, "I have
brought two great gifts, oh my mother. I have taught them that from
the grey olives they can reap a priceless harvest, and from me they
have learned that the little brown bees that hum in and out of the
flowers may be made slaves that bring to them the sweetest riches of
which Nature may be robbed."

"This do I already know, my son," said Cyrene, and smiled upon
Aristaeus.

"Yet dost thou not know," said Aristaeus, "the doom that has overtaken
my army of busy workers. No longer does there come from my city of
bees the boom of many wings and many busy little feet as they fly,
swift and strong, hither and thither, to bring back to the hives
their honeyed treasure. The comb is empty. The bees are all dead--or,
if not dead, they have forsaken me forever."

Then spoke Cyrene. "Hast heard, my son," she said, "of Proteus? It is
he who herds the flocks of the boundless sea. On days when the South
Wind and the North Wind wrestle together, and when the Wind from the
East smites the West Wind in shame before him, thou mayst see him