The Horn of Plenty

Dejanira was one of the most beautiful princesses who lived long ago, in the days of the Greek gods and goddesses. It seemed as if all the charm of the world in that mythical time was hers. Her hair was bright with the yellow of the first spring sunshine, and her eyes were as blue as the spring skies. Summer had touched Dejanira's cheeks with the pink of rose petals, and the colors of autumn fruits shone in her jewels—crimson, purple, and gold. Her robes were as white and soft as winter snow, and all the music of gentle winds, bird songs, and rippling brooks was in her voice.

Because of her beauty and her goodness, which surpassed even that, princes came from all over the world to ask Dejanira's father, Aeneus, if she might go home to their kingdoms to be their queen. But to all of them Aeneus replied that he would give the princess to none but the strongest.

So there were many tests of these strangers' skill and strength in games and wrestling, but one by one they failed. At last there were only two left: Hercules, who was strong enough to hold the sky on his broad shoulders, and Achelous, the river-god, who twisted and twined through the fields, making them fertile with brooks and streams. Each thought himself the greater, and it lay between them which by his prowess would win the princess as his wife.

Hercules was massive of limb and of powerful strength. Beneath his shaggy eyebrows, his eyes gleamed like balls of fire. His garment was of lions' skins, and his staff was a young tree. But the clever Achelous could slip between Hercules' huge fingers. He was as slender and graceful as a willow tree, and his garment was green like foliage. He wore a crown of water lilies on his fair hair and carried a staff made of twined reeds. When Achelous spoke, his voice was like the rippling of a stream.

"The Princess Dejanira shall be mine!" said Achelous. "I will make her the queen of the river lands. The music of the waters shall always be in her ears, and the plenty that follows wherever I go shall make her rich."

"No!" shouted Hercules. "I am the strength of the earth. Dejanira is mine. You shall not have her."

Then the river-god grew very angry. His green robe changed color to that of the black sea in a storm, and his voice was as loud as a mountain cataract. Achelous could be almost as powerful as Hercules when he was angered.

"How dare you claim this royal maiden?" he roared. "You, who have mortal blood in your veins! I am a god and the king of the waters. Wherever I go over the earth, grains and fruits ripen, and flowers bud and bloom. The Princess Dejanira is mine by right."

Hercules frowned as he advanced toward the river-god. "Your strength is only in words," he said scornfully. "My strength is in my arm. If you would win Dejanira, it must be by hand-to-hand combat." So the river-god threw off his garments, and Hercules his lion's skin, and the two fought for the hand of the princess.

It was a brave and valorous battle. Neither yielded; both stood their ground. Achelous slipped in and out of Hercules' mighty grasp a dozen times, but at last the hero's powerful strength was too much for this god, who had only cleverness to rely on. Hercules gripped the river-god tightly by the neck and held him, panting for breath.

Then Achelous resorted to the trickery he knew. Through magic arts, he suddenly changed his form into that of a long, slimy serpent. He twisted out of Hercules' grasp and darted a forked tongue at him, showing his fangs. Hercules was not yet defeated. He only laughed scornfully at the serpent and grasped the creature by the back of its neck, ready to strangle it.

Achelous struggled in vain to escape and at last resorted to sorcery once more. In a second, the serpent changed into a ferocious, roaring bull. It charged at Hercules with lowered horns. But the hero was still unvanquished. He seized the bull's horns, bent its head, gripped its brawny neck, and threw it, burying its horns in the ground. Then he broke off one of the horns with his iron-strong hand and held it up in the air, shouting, "Victory! Dejanira is mine!"

Achelous returned to his own shape and, crying with pain, ran from the castle grounds where the combat had taken place, not stopping until he had plunged into a cooling stream. It was right that Hercules triumphed, for his was the strength of arm, not of trickery.

The Princess Dejanira came to him, and with her came the goddess of plenty, Ceres, to give the conqueror his reward.

Ceres took the great horn that Hercules had torn from Achelous' head and heaped it full to overflowing with the treasures of the year's harvest. Ripe grain, purple grapes, rosy apples, plums, nuts, pomegranates, olives, and figs filled the horn and spilled over the edge. The wood-nymphs and the water-nymphs came and twined the horn with vines, crimson leaves, and the last bright flowers of the year. Then they carried this first horn of plenty high above their heads and gave it to Hercules and the beautiful Dejanira as a wedding present. It was the richest gift the gods could make—that of the year's harvest.

And ever since that long-ago story time of the Greeks, the horn of plenty has stood for the year's blessing to us.