Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which
she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this:
"Epimetheus, what have you in that box?"
"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and
you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was
left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains."
"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?"
"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.
"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way!"
"Oh, come, don't think of it any more," cried Epimetheus. "Let us run
out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was
in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and
mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor
trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always
plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it
growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he
could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide,
he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast.
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