The zealous little creatures worked in
swarms, with such industry over the work they
like best, that, when Venus came at night, she
found the task completed.
``Deceitful girl,'' she cried, shaking the roses
out of her hair with impatience, ``this is my son's
work, not yours. But he will soon forget you.
Eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh
your dull mind with sleep. To-morrow you
will need more wit.''
Psyche wondered what new misfortune could
be in store for her. But when morning came,
Venus led her to the brink of a river, and,
pointing to the wood across the water, said: ``Go now
to yonder grove where the sheep with the golden
fleece are wont to browse. Bring me a golden lock
from every one of them, or you must go your
ways and never come back again.''
This seemed not difficult, and Psyche
obediently bade the goddess farewell, and stepped into
the water, ready to wade across. But as Venus
disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the
nymphs of the river, looking up sweetly, blew
bubbles to the surface and murmured: ``Nay,
nay, have a care, Psyche. This flock has not the
gentle ways of sheep. While the sun burns aloft,
they are themselves as fierce as flame; but when
the shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep,
under the trees; and you may cross the river
without fear and pick the golden fleece off the briers
in the pasture.
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