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THE GOLDEN TOUCH.

ONCE upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides,
whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but
myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have
entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to
call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. He
valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious
metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little
maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. But the more
Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. he
thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear
child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening
coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made.
Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. If ever
he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he
wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely
into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to met him, with a bunch of
buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "Poh, poh, child! If these
flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!"

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this
insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers.
He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and
sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. These roses were still
growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant, as when Midas
used to pass whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their perfume.
But now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the
garden would be worth if each of the inmimerable rose-petals were a thin
plate of gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle
story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the
only music for poor Midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take
care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely hear to see or touch any object that
was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of
every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement
of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole--for it
was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook himself, whenever he
wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully locking the door, he
would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a
heavy golden bar, or a peckmeasure of gold-dust, and bring them from
the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam
that fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no
other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. And
then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch
it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny
image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the
cup ; and whisper to himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy
man art thou!" But it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept
grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be
aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make
fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so
happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be
reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and
be filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the
old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came to
pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our
own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things take
place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the
people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I
regard our own times as the strangest of the two; hut, however that may
be, I must go on with my story.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when
he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly
up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the
bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and
ruddy face. Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a
yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not
help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a
kind of golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures
than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were
lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of
fire.

As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no
mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course,
concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal. It is no
matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the earth was
comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort of
beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest
themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half
playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now, and
was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect, indeed,
was so good-humorcd and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have
been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far
more probahle that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that
favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?

The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to
Midas.

"You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!" he observed. "I doubt whether any
other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to
pile up in this room."

"I have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered Midas, in a discontented

tone. "But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me
my whole life to get it together. If one could live a thousand years, he might
have time to grow rich!"

"What!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then you are not satisfied?"

Midas shook his head.

"And pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know."

Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger,

with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with
both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now,
therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and
obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come
into his head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and
heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without
being able to imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred to
King Midas. It seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he
loved so much.

Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.

"Well, Midas," observed his visitor, "I see that you have at length hit upon
something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish."

"It is only this," replied Midas. "I am weary of collecting my treasures with
so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have done
my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!"

The stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room like
an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the yellow
autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of gold--lie strewn
in the glow of light.

"The Golden Touch!" exclaimed he. "You certainly deserve credit, friend
Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure that
this will satisfy you?"

"How could it fail?" said Midas.

"And will you never regret the possession of it?"

"What could induce me?" asked Midas. "I ask nothing else, to render me
perfectly happy."

"Be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of
farewell. "To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the
Golden Touch."

The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas
involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one
yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the
precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep or
awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to whom a
beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any rate,
day had hardly peeped over the hills, when King Midas was broad awake,
and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were
within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch had
really come, according to the stranger's promise. So he laid his finger on a
chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously
disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same
substance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only
dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been
making game of him. And what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all
his hopes, Midas must content himself with what little gold he could
scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch!

All this while, it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of
brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it. He lay
in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and kept
growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through the
window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. It seemed to Midas that this
bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white
covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his astonishment
and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to
what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! The
Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room,
grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of
the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled
aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders
which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,--a mass
of gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first touch, it assumed the
appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one
often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the
leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the
wisdom of the book had grown illegible. He hurriedly put on his clothes,
and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth,
which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little
with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little Marygold had
hemmed for him. That was likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and
pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King
Midas. He would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have
remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his
hand.

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas now took his
spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he
might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days, spectacles for
common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings;
else, how could Midas have had any? To his great perplexity, however,
excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly
see through them. But this was the most natural thing in the world; for, on
taking them off, the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow
metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as
gold. It struck Midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he
could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.

"It is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very

philosophically. "We cannot expect any great good, without its being
accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth
the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very eyesight.
My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon
be old enough to read to me."

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace
seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went down
stairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase
became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his
descent. He lifted the doorlatch (it was brass only a moment ago, but
golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as
it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and
others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was their
fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of the
fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet
tranquillity, did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his
way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains
in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most
indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at
the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this good
work was completed, King Midas was suinmoned to breakfast; and as the
morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to
the palace.

What was usually a king's breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do not
know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the best of my belief,
however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes,
some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and
coffee, for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his
daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king;
and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have had a better.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her
to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming, in
order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved his
daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the
good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great while before he
heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly. This
circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the
cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and
hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemouth. When Midas heard her
sobs, he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits, by an
agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his
daughter's bowl (which was a China one, with pretty figures all around it),
and transmuted it to gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and

showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart
would break.

"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "Pray what is the matter with you,
this bright morning?"

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in
which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this magnificent

golden rose to make you cry?"

"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; "it
is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I was
dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I
know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little
daughter. But, oh dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such
a misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly and had so
many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow,
as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have
been the matter with them?"

"Poh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said Midas, who was
ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so
greatly afflicted her. "Sit down and eat your bread and milk. You will find it
easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds
of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day."

"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it
coutemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my
nose!"

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the
blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of
her China bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for Marygold was
accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures, and strange
trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of the bowl;
and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of

course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it
up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it was rather
an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast
off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping
his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a
secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and
coffee-pots.

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping
it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it
became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump!

"Ha!" exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

"What is the matter, father?" asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with the
tears still standing in her eyes.

"Nothing, child, nothing!" said Midas. "Eat your milk, before it gets quite
cold."

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment,
touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was immediately transmuted
from an admirably fried brook-trout into a gold-fish, though not one of
those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass globes, as ornaments
for the parlor. No; but it was really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had
been very cunningly made by the nicest gold-smith in the world. Its little
bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold ;
and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy
appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty
piece of work, as you may suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment,
would much rather have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and
valuable imitation of one.

"I don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how I am to get any breakfast!"

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when,
to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the
whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To say the truth,
if it had really been a hot Indian cake, Midas would have prized it a good
deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased weight made
him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in despair, he helped
himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to
those of the trout and the cake. The egg, mdeed, might have been
mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was
in the habit of laying; but King Midas was the only goose that had had
anything to do with the matter.

"Well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair, and
looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread
and milk with great satisfaction. "Such a costly breakfast before me, and
nothing that can be eaten!"

Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to
be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato,
and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. But the
Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth full, not of
mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared
aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about
the room, both with pain and affright.

"Father, dear father!" cried little Marygold, who was a very affectionate
child, "pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your mouth?"

"Ah, dear child," groaned Midas, dolefully, "I don't know what is to become
of your poor father!"

And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case in
all your lives? here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set
before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing.
The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water,
was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food was really worth
its weight in gold. And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas
was excessively hungry. Would he be less so by dinner-time? And how
ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly
consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him!
How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich
fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt

whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even
the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So fascinated
was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have
refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a consideration as a
breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal's victuals! It would have
been the same as paying millions and millions of money (and as many
millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an
egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!

"It would be quite too dear," thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation,
that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our pretty Marygold
could endure it no longer. She sat, a moment, gazing at her father, and
trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter
with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she
started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms
affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt that
his little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more than he had
gained by the Golden Touch.

"My precious, precious Marygold!" cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger
bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold's forehead, a
change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had
been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops congealing
on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft
and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father's encircling
arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth,
little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity,
hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woful sight that ever
mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there; even the
beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But, the more perfect
was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at beholding this
golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter. It had been a
favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to
say that she was worth her weight in gold. And now the phrase had
become literally true. And now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how
infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all
the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fullness of
all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself;
and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away
from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not
possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But, stealing another
glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its
yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that it seemed as if that
very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again. This,
however, could not be. So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish
that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth
might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child's face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger

standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for
he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day
before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous
faculty of the Golden Touch. The stranger's countenance still wore a
smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and
gleamed on little Marygold's image, and on the other objects that had
been transmuted by the touch of Midas.

"Well, friend Midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with the
Golden Touch?"

Midas shook his head.

"I am very miserable," said he.

"Very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger. "And how happens

that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not
everything that your heart desired?"

"Gold is not everything," answered Midas. "And I have lost all that my
heart really cared for."

"Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?" observed the

stranger. "Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is really
worth the most,--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold
water?"

"O blessed water!" exclaimed Midas. "It will never moisten my parched
throat again!"
"The Golden Touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?"

"A piece of bread," answered Midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!"

"The Golden Touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little Marygold,
warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?"

"Oh my child, my dear child!" cried poor Midas wringing his hands. "I
would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of
changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!"

"You are wiser than you were, King Midas!" said the stranger, looking
seriously at him. "Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely
changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be
desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the
commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more
valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after.
Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?"

"It is hateful to me!" replied Midas.

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had
become gold. Midas shuddered.

"Go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides past the
bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water, and
sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from
gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it
may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned."

King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger
had vanished.

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great
earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it),
and hastening to the river-side. As he scampered along, and forced his
way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous to see how the
foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and
nowhere else. On reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in,
without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.

"Poof! poof! poof!" snorted King Midas, as his head emerged out of the
water. "Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have quite
washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!"

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it
change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it had
been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within
himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his
bosom. No doubt, his heart had been gradually losing its human
substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now
softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank
of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that
the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow
blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had, therefore, really been removed
from him.

King Midas hastened back to the palace; and, I suppose, the servants
knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully
bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was to
undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to
Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The first thing he
did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the
golden figure of little Marygold.

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the
rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek and how she began to
sneeze and sputter!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping
wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!

"Pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "See how you have wet my nice
frock, which I put on only this morning!"

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor
could she remember anything that had happened since the moment
when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.
Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very
foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser
he had now grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into the garden,
where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes,
and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their
beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however, which, as long
as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden Touch. One
was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little
Marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it
before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss. This change of
hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold's hair richer than in
her babyhood.

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot
Marygold's children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this
marvellous story, pretty much as I have now told it to you. And then would
he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a
rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.

"And to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth King Midas,
diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that morning, I have
hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!"