The Junior Classics, vol 7 | Page 4

for him.
The next day Phidias came again, and took his place at the
image-maker's bench, just as if he were always accustomed to sit there.
Aristæus, who was better, watched him curiously, but asked no
questions.
But Iris said to him: "My father and I talk of you, and wonder who you
are."
Phidias laughed.
"Perhaps I shall tell you some day," he answered. "There, child, what
do you think of that little vase? When it is baked it will be a pretty
thing."
As the days went on, the image-maker recovered his strength; and
meanwhile Phidias had filled the little shop with dainty-wrought
images and graceful vases, such as had never been seen there before.
One evening, when Aristæus was leaning against Iris, and admiring the
stranger's work, the door opened and Phidias came in.
"What, friend," he said cheerily, "you are better to-night I see!"

"Last night," said Aristæus, "I dreamt that the friend who held out a
brother's hand to me and helped me in my trouble was the great Phidias
himself. It did not seem wonderful to me, for only the great do such
things as you have done for me. You must be great."
"I do not know about that," said the sculptor, smiling, "and after all, I
have not done so much for you. I have only helped a brother-workman:
for I am an image-maker too--and my name is Phidias."
Then Aristæus bent down and reverently kissed the great sculptor's
hands.
"I cannot find words with which to thank you," he murmured, "but I
shall pray to the gods night and day that they will for ever bless Phidias,
and keep his fame pure, and his hands strong to fashion forms of beauty.
And this I know well: that he will always have a resting-place of love
and gratitude in the poor image-maker's heart."
And Phidias went on his way, tenfold richer and happier for the
image-maker's words. For there is something lovelier than fame and
wealth, my children; it is the opportunity of giving the best of one's self
and the best of one's powers to aid those of our fellow-workers who
need our active help.

THE FIGHT AT THE PASS OF THERMOPYLÆ
By Charlotte M. Yonge

There was trembling in Greece. "The Great King," as the Greeks called
Xerxes, the chief ruler of the East, was marshaling his forces against
the little free states that nestled amid the rocks and gulfs of the Eastern
Mediterranean--the whole of which together would hardly equal one
province of the huge Asiatic realm! Moreover, it was a war not only on
the men but on their gods. The Persians were zealous adorers of the sun
and the fire, they abhorred the idol-worship of the Greeks, and defiled

and plundered every temple that fell in their way. Death and desolation
were almost the best that could be looked for at such hands--slavery
and torture from cruelly barbarous masters would only too surely be the
lot of numbers, should their land fall a prey to the conquerors.
The muster place was at Sardis, and there Greek spies had seen the
multitudes assembling and the state and magnificence of the king's
attendants. Envoys had come from him to demand earth and water from
each state in Greece, as emblems that land and sea were his, but each
state was resolved to be free, and only Thessaly, that which lay first in
his path, consented to yield the token of subjugation. A council was
held at the Isthmus of Corinth, and attended by deputies from all the
states of Greece to consider of the best means of defense. The ships of
the enemy would coast round the shores of the Ægean Sea, the land
army would cross the Hellespont on a bridge of boats lashed together,
and march southwards into Greece. The only hope of averting the
danger lay in defending such passages as, from the nature of the ground,
were so narrow that only a few persons could fight hand to hand at
once, so that courage would be of more avail than numbers.
The first of these passes was called Tempe, and a body of troops was
sent to guard it; but they found that this was useless and impossible,
and came back again. The next was at Thermopylæ. Look in your map
of the Archipelago, or Ægean Sea, as it was then called, for the great
island of Negropont, or by its old name, Euboea. It looks like a piece
broken off from the coast, and to the north is shaped like the head of a
bird, with the beak running into a gulf, that would fit over it, upon the
main land, and between the island and the coast is an exceedingly
narrow strait. The