While she dwelt in the king’s palace, Mother Ceres had been so continually occupied with taking care of the young prince that her heart was a little lightened of its grief for Proserpina.  But now, having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just as wretched as before.  At length, in her despair, she came to the dreadful resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was good for man or beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her daughter were restored.  She even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody’s heart should be cheered by their beauty.

Now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself out of the ground without the especial permission of Ceres, you may conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth.  The husbandmen ploughed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand.  The pastures looked as brown in the sweet month of June as ever they did in chill November.  The rich man’s broad acres and the cottager’s small garden patch were equally blighted.  Every little girl’s flower bed showed nothing but dry stalks.  The old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing the warm smile of summer on its face.  It was really piteous to see the poor, starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres, lowing and bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect help from her; and everybody that was acquainted with her power besought her to have mercy on the human race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow.  But Mother Ceres, though naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now inexorable.

“Never,” said she.  “If the earth is ever again to see any verdure, it must first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming back to me.”

Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend Quicksilver was sent post haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he might be persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything right again by giving up Proserpina.  Quicksilver accordingly made the best of his way to the great gate, took a flying leap right over the three-headed mastiff, and stood at the door of the palace in an inconceivably short time.  The servants knew him both by his face and garb; for his short cloak, and his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky staff had often been seen thereabouts in times gone by.  He requested to be shown immediately into the king’s presence; and Pluto, who heard his voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself with Quicksilver’s merry talk, called out to him to come up.  And while they settle their business together, we must inquire what Proserpina has been doing ever since we saw her last.