Then, as the boy struck another chord, all laughter was hushed, and he began to sing; it was a simple, plaintive little song, but there was a magic in his voice which held the listeners spellbound.  The last rays of the setting sun played about his golden curls, and lit up his sweet, childish face, as he sang:—­

  “Why should you grieve for me, my love,
    When I am laid to rest? 
  Our lives are shaped by the gods above,
    And they know best. 
  What though I stand on the farther shore,
  Others have crossed the stream before—­
    Why weep in vain? 
  Life is but a drop in the deep,
  Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
    And meet again.”

As the last note died away, a sigh came from the listeners; some of the women turned away their faces, and the young men began to talk hastily, as if to hide their emotion.

Periander waited until the group began to break up.  Then he stepped forward and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  The boy looked up with a smile.

“What is your name, my fair minstrel?” asked Periander.

“My name is Arion,” answered the boy, as if he were used to being questioned.  “I come from Methymna beyond the hills, where I used to tend the goats.”  And he told Periander that his mother and father died before he could remember, and that he was brought up by an old goat-herd; until a traveling minstrel, who happened one day to hear him singing on the hills, took charge of him and taught him to play the lute.

“That was one of his own songs I was singing,” said Arion.  “He always liked me to sing his songs; but, when I am a man, I shall make my own songs, and sing them in the great cities over the sea.”

“And so you shall,” said Periander.  “Now, listen to me, Arion!  Some day, perhaps, I also may be a great man, able to help you to become a great singer.  Remember, when you have need of a friend, that Periander of Corinth will help you, if he can!”

And, when he departed, Periander left a sum of money with a worthy old couple, who promised to look after the boy, and see that he wanted nothing.

After some years, Periander became king of Corinth, and having a love of everything beautiful, he soon gathered about him a little band of poets, artists, and musicians.  One day, when he was listening to one of the court musicians, something—­it might have been a chord in the music—­reminded him of the little Lesbian Arion.  He seemed to see once more the boy with the golden light on his curls, and the upturned faces of the peasants grouped around him; and the very words of the song ran in his head.

“By Apollo!” he cried, so suddenly that the musician nearly fell off his seat.  “We will have the little Lesbian at court, and make a famous singer of him.  Where is Glaucus?  Ho, there!  Bid Glaucus attend the king!”

When Glaucus appeared, the king bade him take a boat and sail for Lesbos.  “There you will make search for one Arion, a singer,” he said.  “And when you have found him, say, ’Periander of Corinth has need of his friend Arion.’  And see that you bring him safely to Corinth!”