This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world.  He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal.  If he loved anything better or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s footstool.  But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth.  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.  Thus he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose.  If he ever 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.

When little Marygold ran to meet him with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, “Pooh, pooh, child!  If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!”

And yet in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed with this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers.  He had planted a garden in which grew the biggest and beautifulest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelled.  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.  But now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold.  And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas now was the chink of one coin against another.

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser) Midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold.  He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment underground, at the basement of his palace.  It was here that he kept his wealth.  To this dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon—­Midas betook himself whenever he wanted to be particularly happy.  Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck measure of gold dust, and bring it from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window.  He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help.  And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag, toss up the bar and catch it as it came down, sift the gold dust through his fingers, look at the funny image of his own face as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup, and whisper to himself, “O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!” But it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him out of the polished surface of the cup.  It seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.