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 ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground, there
might have been hopes of regaining her. But now that the poor child was
shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold
of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of
her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the
darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her
to the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres
answered, that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that,
for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance
to King Pluto's dominions. And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried
back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with
a glimpse of her dog's face as she went.

Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her
toilsome way, all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the
flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned
together in her heart.

So much did she suffer, that, though her aspect had been quite youthful
when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly person in a
very brief time. She cared not how she was dressed, nor had she ever
thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies, which she put
on the very morning of Proserpina's disappearance. She roamed about in
so wild a way, and with her hair so disheveled, that people took her for
some distracted creature, and never dreamed that this was Mother Ceres,
who had the oversight of every seed which the husbandman planted.
Nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble about seed time nor
harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their own affairs, and the
crops to fade or flourish, as the case migh