Phaeton leaped into the golden chariot, and with a proud smile thanked his father. Then he gave the word to the horses. They darted forward through the morning clouds with the fury of a tempest. Men on the earth thought it was noonday and tried to do double their daily work. The fiery horses soon found their load was light, and that the hands on the reins were frail. They dashed aside from their path, until the fierce heat made the Great and the Little Bear long to plunge into the sea. Poor Phaeton, looking down on the earth, grew pale and shook with terror. He wished that he had never seen these shining steeds, had never sought the palace of the Sun, and that he had never held his father to that rash promise. Diana, who drives the chariot of the Moon, heard the mad racket in the sky, and shooting her arrows at the frightened horses, turned them aside in time to prevent them from dashing her own silver car to pieces. Earth cried for clouds and rain. The people of Africa became black because of the terrible heat. Streams dried up, mountains burned, and the River Nile hid his head forever in a desert. At last Earth cried in a husky voice to Jupiter, the ruler of the gods: "What have I done that this punishment should come? Slay me, or save my people from this burning!" [Illustration: PHAETON FALLING FROM THE CHARIOT] Jupiter, from his seat in the thunderclouds, saw the danger the heavens and the earth were in, and hurled his lightnings at the rash driver. Phaeton fell dead from the chariot. From morning till night, and from that night till morning, he fell like a shooting star, and sank at last into an Italian river. His sisters trembled so at his fall and wept so bitterly that they changed into poplar trees upon the river banks. Even to this day they mourn for him and tremble at the least breeze from heaven. Apollo's horses, calmed by Jupiter's voice, finally found the track. When evening came they entered the western gates of the sky and were taken back, by way of the north, to their stalls near Apollo's palace. WODEN, GOD OF THE NORTHERN SKY _Norse_ Little Hilda Peterson sat by a table in her mother's room studying her spelling lesson. Suddenly she startled her mother by giving the table a sharp rap with her pencil and saying: "What a queer name for a day! Why didn't the people who named the days give them numbers instead of names? I can never remember how to spell Wednesday. What is the use of the third letter in it?" "My little girl, when you have finished your lesson I will tell you a story; then I think you will always remember where the fourth day got its name." It did not take Hilda many minutes to finish her studying, with the promise of a story before her. This is the old Norse tale her mother told: