hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her.  But nobody had seen Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint which way to seek her.  Thus passed the night; and still she continued her search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even remembering to put out the torch; although first the rosy dawn, and then the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin and pale.  But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and never was extinguished by the rain or wind in all the weary days and nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.

It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her daughter.  In the woods and by the streams she met creatures of another nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary places, and were very sociable with persons who understood their language and customs, as Mother Ceres did.  Sometimes, for instance, she tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and immediately its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a beautiful maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves sported with the breeze.  But not one of these leafy damsels had seen Proserpina.  Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come to a fountain gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would dabble with her hand in the water.  Behold, up through its sandy and pebbly bed, along with the fountain’s gush, a young woman with dripping hair would arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres, half out of the water, and undulating up and down with its ever-restless motion.  But when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink out of the fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these water nymphs had tears to spare for everybody’s grief), would answer, “No!” in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the stream.

Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gambolled merrily about the woods and fields.  They were a frolicsome kind of creature, but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow when Ceres inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell.  But sometimes she came suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces like monkeys and horses’ tails behind them, and who were generally dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter.  When she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder and make new merriment out of the lone woman’s distress.  How unkind of those ugly satyrs!  And once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a personage