our children and our flocks shall all
be slain by him."

Then Apollo with his silver bow in his hands went up towards the place
where the Python lay. The monster had worn great paths through the grass
and among the rocks, and his lair was not hard to find. When he caught
sight of Apollo, he uncoiled himself, and came out to meet him. The
bright prince saw the creature's glaring eyes and blood-red mouth, and
heard the rush of his scaly body over the stones. He fitted an arrow to
his bow, and stood still. The Python saw that his foe was no common man,
and turned to flee. Then the arrow sped from the bow--and the monster
was dead.

"Here I will build my house," said Apollo.

Close to the foot of the steep cliff, and beneath the spot where
Jupiter's eagles had fallen, he laid the foundations; and soon where had
been the lair of the Python, the white walls of Apollo's temple arose
among the rocks. Then the poor people of the land came and built their
houses near by; and Apollo lived among them many years, and taught them
to be gentle and wise, and showed them how to be happy. The mountain was
no longer savage and wild, but was a place of music and song; the valley
was no longer dark and lonely, but was filled with beauty and light.

"What shall we call our city?" the people asked.

"Call it Delphi, or the Dolphin," said Apollo; "for it was a dolphin
that carried my mother across the sea."

III. DAPHNE.

In the Vale of Tempe, which lies far north of Delphi, there lived a
young girl whose name was Daphne. She was a strange child, wild and shy
as a fawn, and as fleet of foot as the deer that feed on the plains. But
she was as fair and good as a day in June, and none could know her but
to love her.

Daphne spent the most of her time in the fields and woods, with the
birds and blossoms and trees; and she liked best of all to wander along
the banks of the River Peneus, and listen to the ripple of the water as
it flowed among the reeds or over the shining pebbles. Very often she
would sing and talk to the river as if it were a living thing, and could
hear her; and she fancied that it understood what she said, and that it
whispered many a wonderful secret to her in return. The good people who
knew her best said:

"She is the child of the river."

"Yes, dear river," she said, "let me be your child."

The river smiled and answered her in a way which she alone could
understand; and always, after that, she called