THE GOLDEN TOUCH
‘How now, my little lady!’ cried Midas. ‘Pray what is the matter with you this bright morning?’
Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.
‘Beautiful!’ exclaimed her father. ‘And what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?’
‘Ah, dear father!’ answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; ‘it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter. But, oh dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?’
‘Poh, my dear little girl,–pray don’t cry about it!’ said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. ‘Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day.’
‘I don’t care for such as this!’ cried Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. ‘It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!’
The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of her China bowl.
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