Hamilton Wright Mabie.

Myths That Every Child Should Know

CHAPTER I

THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES

Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the Hesperides?  Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price, by the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of nowadays!  But there is not, I suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit on a single tree in the wide world.  Not so much as a seed of those apples exists any longer.

And, even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their branches.  All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen any.  Children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to stories of the golden apple tree, and resolved to discover it, when they should be big enough.  Adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit.  Many of them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples.  No wonder that they found it impossible to gather them!  It is said that there was a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on the watch, while the other fifty slept.

In my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a solid golden apple.  Had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed that would be another matter.  There might then have been some sense in trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon.

But, as I have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young persons, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the garden of the Hesperides.  And once the adventure was undertaken by a hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the world.  At the time of which I am going to speak, he was wandering through the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand, and a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders.  He was wrapt in the skin of the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind, and generous, and noble, there was a good deal of the lion’s fierceness in his heart.  As he went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the right road to the famous garden.  But none of the country people knew anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the question, if the stranger had not carried so very big a club.

So he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at last, he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women sat twining wreaths of flowers.

“Can you tell me, pretty maidens,” asked the stranger, “whether this is the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?”