“This is very delicious water,” he said to the maiden as he rinsed and filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it.  “Will you be kind enough to tell me whether the fountain has any name?”

“Yes; it is called the Fountain of Pirene,” answered the maiden; and then she added, “My grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was once a beautiful woman; and when her son was killed by the arrows of the huntress Diana, she melted all away into tears.  And so the water, which you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother’s heart!”

“I should not have dreamed,” observed the young stranger, “that so clear a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom!  And this, then, is Pirene?  I thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its name.  I have come from a far-away country to find this very spot.”

A middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the spring) stared hard at young Bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle which he carried in his hand.

“The watercourses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the world,” remarked he, “if you come so far only to find the Fountain of Pirene.  But, pray, have you lost a horse?  I see you carry the bridle in your hand; and a very pretty one it is with that double row of bright stones upon it.  If the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to be pitied for losing him.”

“I have lost no horse,” said Bellerophon, with a smile.  “But I happen to be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me, must be found hereabouts, if anywhere.  Do you know whether the winged horse Pegasus still haunts the Fountain of Pirene, as he used to do in your forefathers’ days?”

But then the country fellow laughed.

Some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this Pegasus was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of his time on the summit of Mount Helicon.  He was as wild, and as swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever soared into the clouds.  There was nothing else like him in the world.  He had no mate; he never had been backed or bridled by a master; and, for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life.

Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse!  Sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth.  Whenever he was seen, up very high above people’s heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapours, and was seeking his way back again.  It was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it, for a moment or two, and then break