These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant, as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their perfume. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. When little Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "Poh, poh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!"Īnd yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal. This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold. NCE upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely forgotten.
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