make a thread of music run in and out among his words,--"as the little
damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste
for flowers) she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto, and carried off
to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the universe; but the
royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of architecture,
and of the most splendid and costly materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and
all manner of precious stones will be your daughter's ordinary playthings.
I recommend to you, my dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness.
Proserpina's sense of beauty will be duly gratified, and, even in spite of
the lack of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable life."

"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres indignantly. "What is there to
gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you speak of, without
affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me, Phoebus, to
demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?"

"Pray excuse me," replied Phoebus, with an elegant obeisance. "I certainly
wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so immediately
pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you. Besides, I am
not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his
three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway; for I should be
compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know,
are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom."

"Ah, Phoebus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have a
harp instead of a heart. Farewell."

"Will not you stay a moment," asked Phoebus, "and hear me turn the pretty
and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?"

But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate. Phoebus
(who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to make
an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to judge of his
sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed with a
very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the habit of using his
heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as much
as he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though Phoebus
sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the sunbeams
amid which he dwelt.

Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but
was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary, looked more
desperate than