Select the desired text size
From Tanglewood Tales by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Start of Story
Age Rating 8 to 10.
But my story must now clamber out of King Pluto's dominions, and see
what Mother Ceres had been about, since she was bereft of her daughter.
We had a glimpse of her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving
grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling along the
chariot, in which her beloved Proserpina was so unwillingly borne away.
You recollect, too, the loud scream which Proserpina gave, just when the
chariot was out of sight.
Of all the child's outcries, this last shriek was the only one that
reached the ears of Mother Ceres. She had mistaken the rumbling of the
chariot wheels for a peal of thunder, and imagined that a shower was
coming up, and that it would assist her in making the corn grow. But, at
the sound of Proserpina's shriek, she started, and looked about in every
direction, not knowing whence it came, but feeling almost certain that
it was her daughter's voice. It seemed so unaccountable, however, that
the girl should have strayed over so many lands and seas (which she
herself could not have traversed without the aid of her winged dragons),
that the good Ceres tried to believe that it must be the child of some
other parent, and not her own darling Proserpina, who had uttered this
lamentable cry. Nevertheless, it troubled her with a vast many tender
fears, such as are ready to bestir themselves in every mother's heart,
when she finds it necessary to go away from her dear children without
leaving them under the care of some maiden aunt, or other such faithful
guardian. So she quickly left the field in which she had been so busy;
and, as her work was not half done, the grain looked, next day, as if it
needed both sun and rain, and as if it were blighted in the ear, and had
something the matter with its roots.
The pair of dragons must have had very nimble wings; for, in less than
an hour, Mother Ceres had alighted at the door of her home, and found
it empty. Knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting on the
sea-shore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld
the wet faces of the poor sea nymphs peeping over a wave. All this
while, the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and
once, every half minute or so, had popped up their four heads above
water, to see if their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw
Mother Ceres, they sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it
toss them ashore at her feet.
"Where is Proserpina?" cried Ceres. "Where is my child? Tell me, you
naughty sea nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?"
"O, no, good Mother Ceres," said the innocent sea nymphs, tossing back
their green ringlets, and looking her in the face. "We never should
dream of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true;
but she left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon
the dry land, and gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in
the day, and we have seen nothing of her since."
Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before she
hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But nobody
told her anything that would enable the poor mother to guess what had
become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little
footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a
basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers;
several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot wheels, or the
rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain
and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish
nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid
people! It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they
knew, that it was dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she
must seek her daughter elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth,
resolving never to come back until Proserpina was discovered.
In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the
winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the
search more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in
which she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and
looking carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened,
she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers
which grew on the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.
"Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. "Here is
mischief in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of
mine, nor of its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is
therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child."
But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she
might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.
All night long, at the door of every cottage and farm-house, Ceres
knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen
her child; and they stood, gaping and half-asleep, at the threshold,
and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At the
portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials
hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king
or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to
repose in. And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch
in her 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
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 gamboled 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 same 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 named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, and making music
on a shepherd's flute. He, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goats'
feet; but, being acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question
as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey
out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of
Proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild people.
And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and
nights, finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a
withered flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because
she fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand. All
day she traveled onward through the hot sun; and, at night again, the
flame of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she
continued her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.
On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern within which
(though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been only
a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning there. It
flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not half light up
the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres was resolved to
leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the
cave, and lighted it up a little more, by holding her own torch before
her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman,
sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which
had been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it were)
was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her head, they tell
me, was shaped very much like a dog's, and, by way of ornament, she wore
a wreath of snakes around it. But Mother Ceres, the moment she saw her,
knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put all her enjoyment
in being miserable, and never would have a word to say to other people,
unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she herself delighted to
"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this
melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet." So
she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the
dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss,
she had found no other companion.
"O Hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know
what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"
"No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every
word or two; "no, Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter.
But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way, that all cries of
distress and affright all over the world are pretty sure to find their
way to them; and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very
miserable, I heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great
distress. Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest
assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel
monster, was carrying her away."
"You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. "Where
was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time,
there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell
you nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see
your daughter again. The best advice I can give you is, to take up your
abode in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in
"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come with your
torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no
more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then,
if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered
leaves or on the naked rock, I will show what it is to be miserable.
But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I
will not allow myself space even to grieve."
The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate
Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the
sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad
spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally
consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches,
although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed
to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met, along the road, could
not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught
a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they
generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a second
As the pair traveled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck
"There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor child,
and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I think of
him before? It is Phoebus."
"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine? O,
pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous young
fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is such a
glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which
I have almost wept away already."
"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us
make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phoebus along with it."
Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phoebus, both of them sighing
grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse
lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in
being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it. By and by, after
a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole
world. There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling
ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments
were like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so
exceedingly vivid, that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering
that he ought to wear a black veil. Phoebus (for this was the very
person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making
its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most
exquisite song, which he had recently composed. For, beside a great many
other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable
As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phoebus smiled on them
so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and
Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres, she
was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether Phoebus
smiled or frowned.
"Phoebus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to
you for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child
"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phoebus,
endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of
pleasant ideas in his mind, that he was apt to forget what had happened
no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very
lovely child, indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I
did see the little Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself
perfectly easy about her. She is safe, and in excellent hands."
"O, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands, and
flinging herself at his feet.
"Why," said Phoebus--and as he spoke he kept touching his lyre so as to
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 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 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 might be. There was nothing, now,
in which Ceres seemed to feel an interest, unless when she saw children
at play, or gathering flowers along the wayside. Then, indeed, she
would stand and gaze at them with tears in her eyes. The children, too,
appeared to have a sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves
in a little group about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face;
and Ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them to their
homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight.
"For if they do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me, that
the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a liking to your darlings, and
snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away."
continued on page 3