What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarrelled among themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a corner, and sulked.  Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in!  The truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the earth.  It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had ever experienced was Pandora’s vexation at not being able to discover the secret of the mysterious box.

This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other children.

“Whence can the box have come?” Pandora continually kept saying to herself and to Epimetheus.  “And what in the world can be inside of it?”

“Always talking about this box!” said Epimetheus, at last; for he had grown extremely tired of the subject.  “I wish, dear Pandora, you would try to talk of something else.  Come, let us go and gather some ripe figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper.  And I know a vine that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted.”

“Always talking about grapes and figs!” cried Pandora, pettishly.

“Well, then,” said Epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like a multitude of children in those days, “let us run out and have a merry time with our playmates.”

“I am tired of merry times, and don’t care if I never have any more!” answered our pettish little Pandora.  “And, besides, I never do have any.  This ugly box!  I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time.  I insist upon your telling me what is inside of it.”

“As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!” replied Epimetheus, getting a little vexed.  “How, then, can I tell you what is inside?”

“You might open it,” said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, “and then we could see for ourselves.”

“Pandora, what are you thinking of?” exclaimed Epimetheus.

And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box, which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it, that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more.  Still, however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.

“At least,” said she, “you can tell me how it came here.”

“It was left at the door,” replied Epimetheus, “just before you came, by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly forbear laughing as he put it down.  He was dressed in an odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings.”

“What sort of a staff had he?” asked Pandora.

“Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!” cried Epimetheus.  “It was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive.”