forth from the other side.  Or, in a sullen rain storm, when there was a gray pavement of clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would gleam after him.  In another instant, it is true, both Pegasus and the pleasant light would be gone away together.  But anyone that was fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole day afterward, and as much longer as the storm lasted.

In the summer time, and in the beautifullest of weather, Pegasus often alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind.  Oftener than in any other place, he had been seen near the Fountain of Pirene, drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of the margin.  Sometimes, too (but Pegasus was very dainty in his food), he would crop a few of the clover blossoms that happened to be sweetest.

To the Fountain of Pirene, therefore, people’s great-grandfathers had been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful and retained their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful Pegasus.  But, of late years, he had been very seldom seen.  Indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an hour’s walk of the fountain, who had never beheld Pegasus, and did not believe that there was any such creature in existence.  The country fellow to whom Bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons.

And that was the reason why he laughed.

“Pegasus, indeed!” cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat nose could be turned up—­“Pegasus, indeed!  A winged horse, truly!  Why, friend, are you in your senses?  Of what use would wings be to a horse?  Could he drag the plough so well, think you?  To be sure, there might be a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like to see his horse flying out of the stable window?—­yes, or whisking him up above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill?  No, no!  I don’t believe in Pegasus.  There never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse fowl made!”

“I have some reason to think otherwise,” said Bellerophon, quietly.

And then he turned to an old, gray man, who was leaning on a staff, and listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward and one hand at his ear, because, for the last twenty years, he had been getting rather deaf.

“And what say you, venerable sir?” inquired he, “In your younger days, I should imagine, you must frequently have seen the winged steed!”

“Ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!” said the aged man.  “When I was a lad, if I remember rightly, I used to believe there was such a horse, and so did everybody else.  But, nowadays, I hardly know what to think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all.  If I ever saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the truth, I doubt whether I ever did see him.  One day, to be sure, when I was quite a youth, I remember seeing some hoof tramps round about the brink of the fountain.  Pegasus might have made those hoof marks; and so might some other horse.”