In the merry month of May.






KING MIDAS

CHAPTER I





"O Madchen, Madchen,
Wie lieb' ich dich!"

It was that time of year when all the world belongs to poets, for
their harvest of joy; when those who seek the country not for
beauty, but for coolness, have as yet thought nothing about it, and
when those who dwell in it all the time are too busy planting for
another harvest to have any thought of poets; so that the latter,
and the few others who keep something in their hearts to chime with
the great spring-music, have the woods and waters all for their own
for two joyful months, from the time that the first snowy bloodroot
has blossomed, until the wild rose has faded and nature has no more
to say. In those two months there are two weeks, the ones that usher
in the May, that bear the prize of all the year for glory; the