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 the force of the rushing current. A nymph sang as she worked, an old, old song, that told one of the old, old tales of man's weakness and the power of the creatures of water, but above her song those who listened heard a man's voice, calling loudly and pitifully.

The voice was that of Aristæus, calling aloud for his mother. Then his mother gave command, and the waters of the river rolled asunder and let Aristæus pass down far below to where the fountains of the great rivers lie. A mighty roar of many waters dinned in his ears as the rivers started on the race that was to bring them all at last to their restless haven, the Ocean. To Cyrene he came at length, and to her told his sorrowful tale:

"To men who live their little lives and work and die as I myself—though son of a nymph and of a god—must do," he said, "I have brought two great gifts, oh my mother. I have taught them that from the grey olives they can reap a priceless harvest, and from me they have learned that the little brown bees that hum in and out of the flowers may be made slaves that bring to them the sweetest riches of which Nature may be robbed."

"This do I already know, my son," said Cyrene, and smiled upon Aristæus.

"Yet dost thou not know," said Aristæus, "the doom that has overtaken my army of busy workers. No longer does there come from my city of bees the boom of many wings and many busy little feet as they fly, swift and strong, hither and thither, to bring back