pictures Athene wove and surrounded them with a wreath of olive leaves. Arachne wove in her web many pictures illustrating the disreputable actions of Zeus and surrounded them with a wreath of ivy and blossoms. When she had finished her work Athene could not find fault with the skill of the maiden, but she was enraged with the sacrilege of the weaver. She suddenly tore the web to pieces and struck the maiden three times on the forehead with the spindle which she held in her hand. The unfortunate one could not endure this. Madness seized her and she hanged herself with a rope. As she was suspended in the air, the goddess had compassion upon her and said: “Live, but hang there, thou audacious one. And so shall thy whole race to the latest generation be punished.” With these words she sprinkled Arachne with a few magic drops and went away. The hair, nose, and ears of the maiden disappeared and she shrank into a small and noxious insect. And the spider to-day still weaves its web—the old art. Chapter XVIII Hyacinthus The youngest of the sons of the Laconian king, Amyclas, was Hyacinthus. Phœbus Apollo beheld the beautiful boy, who soon became his favorite. He sought at first to elevate him to Olympus that he might be ever near him; but a sad fate prevented this and cut him down in the very flower of his youth. Apollo often forsook sacred Delphi in order to enjoy the company of his favorite at the river of Eurotas in the neighborhood of the unwalled city of Sparta. He left his lyre and bow and joined Hyacinthus in hunting among the hills of Taygetus. Once at noontime, when the sun was sending down its hottest rays, both threw aside their garments, anointed their bodies with oil, and began throwing the discus. Apollo was the first to take the heavy weight and hurled it so powerfully that it pierced the clouds. He waited long for the discus to fall to earth again. Eager to imitate his teacher, the boy sprang forward to make his throw, but suddenly was felled to the earth by Apollo’s discus. Apollo rushed to him and sought to animate his stiffened limbs. He wiped the blood from the dreadful wounds, applied healing balms, and sought to stay the fleeing spirit of his favorite. But it was in vain. Like a broken flower in the garden, the poor boy’s head drooped, exhausted, upon Apollo’s breast. Apollo called him tender names and bedewed his face with bitter tears. Oh, that he were not a god so that he might die for him! At last he cried out: “No, sweet child, thou shalt not wholly die. As a flower thou shalt tell of my sorrow.” As Apollo said this, lo, from the streaming blood which reddened the grass sprang a flower of dark lustre like Tyrian purple, lily formed upon a stalk rich in blossoms, and showing upon its little leaves in clear form the sigh of the god: “A I, A I”; that is, “Alas! Alas!”