``Maiden,'' they would say, shaking the leaves
or the foam from their hair, in wonder, ``Pallas
Athena must have taught you!''
But this did not please Arachne. She would not
acknowledge herself a debtor, even to that goddess
who protected all household arts, and by
whose grace alone one had any skill in them.
``I learned not of Athena,'' said she. ``If she
can weave better, let her come and try.''
The Nymphs shivered at this, and an aged
woman, who was looking on, turned to Arachne.
``Be more heedful of your words, my daughter,''
said she. ``The goddess may pardon you if you
ask forgiveness, but do not strive for honors with
the immortals.''
Arachne broke her thread, and the shuttle
stopped humming.
``Keep your counsel,'' she said. ``I fear not
Athena; no, nor any one else.''
As she frowned at the old woman, she was
amazed to see her change suddenly into one tall,
majestic, beautiful,--a maiden of gray eyes and
golden hair, crowned with a golden helmet. It
was Athena herself.
The bystanders shrank in fear and reverence;
only Arachne was unawed and held to her foolish
boast.
In silence the two began to weave, and the
Nymphs stole nearer, coaxed by the sound of the
shuttles, that seemed to be humming with delight
over the two webs,--back and forth like bees.
They gazed upon the loom where the goddess
stood plying her task, and they saw shapes and
images come to bloom out of the wondrous colors,
as sunset clouds grow to be living creatures when
we watch them.
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