in.

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 ca