THE POTATO

By Thomas Moore

I'm a careless potato, and care not a pin How into existence I came; If they planted me drill-wise, or dibbled me in, To me 'tis exactly the same. The bean and the pea may more loftily tower, But I care not a button for them; Defiance I nod with my beautiful flower When the earth is hoed up to my stem.



THE QUEEN OF THE UNDER-WORLD

Ceres, goddess of agriculture, had one daughter, named Proserpina, whom she loved more than anything else in earth or sky. Sometimes Proserpina accompanied her mother as she journeyed over the earth in her dragon- car, making the corn grow; sometimes she traveled about the earth by herself, tending the flowers, which were her special care; but what she liked best was to stray with her companions, the nymphs, on the slopes of Mount AEtna,

"I, a maiden, dwelt With loved Demeter[FN below] on the sunny plains Of our own Sicily. There, day by day, I sported with my playmate goddesses In virgin freedom. Budding age made gay Our lightsome feet, and on the flowery slopes We wandered daily, gathering flowers to weave In careless garlands for our locks, and passed The days in innocent gladness."

[Footnote: The Greeks and Romans, while they believed in many of the same gods, had different names for them. The Latin names are the ones most commonly used. Thus the goddess whom the Romans called Ceres, the Greeks knew as Demeter, while her daughter, Proserpina, was by the Greeks called Persephone. The poetic quotations used in this story are from the Epic of Hades, by Lewis Morris.]

All the year round the maidens enjoyed these pleasures, for never yet had the change of seasons appeared upon the earth; never had the cold, sunless days come to make the earth barren.

"There was then Summer nor winter, springtide nor the time Of harvest, but the soft unfailing sun Shone always, and the sowing time was one With reaping; fruit and flower together sprung Upon the trees; and the blade and ripened ear Together clothed the plains."

One day while they played and laughed and sang, vying with each other as to which could make the most beautiful garlands, they were startled by a strange rumbling sound. Nearer it came, louder it grew; and suddenly to the frightened eyes of the maidens there appeared a great chariot, drawn by four wild-looking, foam-flecked black steeds. Not long did the girls gaze at the horses or the chariot—all eyes were drawn in fascination to the driver of the car. He was handsome as only a god could be, and yet so gloomy that all knew instantly he could be none other than Pluto, king of the underworld.

Suddenly, while his horses were almost at full speed, he jerked them to a standstill. Then he sprang to the ground, seized Proserpina in his arms, mounted his chariot, and was off before the frightened nymphs could catch their breath to cry out. Poor Prosperina screamed and wept, but no one was near to help her or even to hear her. On they flew, Pluto doing his best to console the weeping girl, but refusing, with a stern shake of the head and a black frown, her plea that she might be allowed to return to her own home, or at least to bid farewell to her mother.



"Never!" he exclaimed. "I have as much right as the other gods to a beautiful wife; and since I knew that you, whom I had seen and loved, would not go with me willingly, I took this way to compel you."

When they came at last to the bank of a raging river, and were obliged to halt, Proserpina redoubled her cries, but still no one heard. Pluto, fuming and fretting and calling down curses on the River Cyane, which thus opposed his passage, seized his great two-pronged fork and struck the earth a terrific blow. To Proserpina's horror a great cavern opened before them, into which they were rapidly whirled. Then, with a crash, the chasm closed behind them, and they moved on in utter darkness. The horses seemed to find their way as easily as in the light, however, and Pluto heaved a sigh of relief as the last of the daylight disappeared.

"Do not tremble so, my fair Proserpina," he said, in a voice far from unkind. "When your eyes become accustomed to the gloom, you will find it much more restful than the glare we have left behind us."

Proserpina's only reply was "My mother! O, my poor mother!" And truly Ceres deserved pity. She had hastened at evening back to her home in Sicily, happy in the thought of seeing her daughter, only to find that daughter gone. The nymphs had retreated, long before, to their beds of seaweed in the green ocean, and no one else could give the poor distracted mother any news. When black night had really settled over the earth, Ceres closed the door of her home, vowing never to open it until she returned with Proserpina. Then, lighting a torch, she set forth, alone and on foot, to seek her daughter.

From country to country she roamed, all over the earth, neither eating nor sleeping, but spending day and night in her search. Of every one she met she demanded, "Have you seen my daughter?"

No one recognized her; and small wonder, for her grief had changed her in appearance from a radiant goddess to a haggard, sad-eyed old woman. "Mad," whispered people as they passed her; for her clothes were ragged and flapping about her, and always, even in the brightest sunlight, she bore in her hand the lighted torch.

One day, weary and hopeless, she sank upon a stone by the roadside, and sat there with her head in her hands, wondering to what land she could next turn her footsteps.

A soft, pitying voice broke in upon her grief, and she raised her head to see two young girls standing before her.

"Poor old woman," said one, "why are you so sad?"

"Ah," cried Ceres, "when I look upon you I am sadder still, for I have lost my only child."

Impulsively the older girl held out her hand. "Come with us," she urged. "We are the daughters of the king of this country, and were but now seeking through the city for a nurse for our baby brother, Triptolemus. You, who have lost the child you loved—will you not take charge of our brother and bestow on him some of your love?"

Touched by their kindness, Ceres followed them; and indeed, she felt the first joy she had known since the disappearance of her daughter when the little prince was put into her arms. But such a weak, puny, wailing princelet as he was! Ceres smiled down at him, and bent her head and kissed him; when, to the utter amazement of those gathered about, he ceased the crying which he had kept up for days, smiled, and clapped his little hands.

And, unless their eyes much deceived them, he began to grow round and rosy and well!

"Will you give this child entirely into my keeping?" asked Ceres.

"Gladly, gladly!" exclaimed the mother, Metanira. For who would not have been glad to engage a nurse whose mere touch worked such wonders?

But as the child's bedtime drew near, Metanira became worried and restless. No one but herself had ever tended him before—was it really safe to trust this stranger? At least, she would watch; and quietly she stole to the door which separated her own apartment from that which had been given to Ceres. The stranger sat before the hearth, with the crowing, happy baby on her knee. Gently she drew off his clothing, gently she anointed him with some liquid, the delicious perfume of which reached Metanira. Then, murmuring some sounding, rhythmic words, she leaned forward and placed him on the glowing coals.

Shrieking, Metanira rushed into the room and caught up her baby, burning herself badly in the act; and furiously she turned to the aged nurse.

"How dare you—" she began; but there she stopped; for before her stood, not the ragged stranger, but a woman taller than mortal, with flowing yellow hair, bound with a wreath of wheat ears and red poppies. And from her face shone a light so bright that Metanira was well-nigh blinded.

"O queen," she said gravely, "thy curiosity and thy lack of faith have cost thy son dear. Immortality was the gift I meant to bestow upon him, but now he shall grow old and die at last as other men." And with these words the goddess vanished. [Footnote: Although Ceres was unable to do all she wished for Triptolemus, she did not forget him. When he grew up she loaned him her dragon-car and sent him about the world teaching people how to till the soil, and, in particular, to use the plow. It was Triptolemus who instituted the great festival at Eleusis which was held in honor of Ceres.]

Still finding no trace of her daughter, Ceres cursed the earth and forbade it to bring forth fruit until Proserpina should be found.

"Then on all lands She cast the spell of barrenness; the wheat Was blighted in the ear, the purple grapes Blushed no more on the vines."

Great indeed must have been the anguish of this kindest of all goddesses when she could bring herself to adopt such measures. Even the grief and want of the people among whom she moved could not waken her pity.

One day, when her wanderings had brought her back to Italy, Ceres came to the bank of the Cyane River, and there, glittering at her feet, was the girdle which she had watched her daughter put on the last day she saw her. Torn between hope and fear, Ceres snatched it up. Had Proserpina, then, been drowned in this raging river? At any rate, it was much, after all these months, to find something which her dear daughter had touched, and with renewed energy she started on. As she rested, late in the day, by the side of a cool, sparkling fountain, she fancied she heard words mingling with the splashing of the water. Holding her breath, she listened:

"O Ceres," came the words, scarcely distinguishable, "I made a long journey underground, to cool my waters ere they burst forth at this point. As I passed through the lower world, I saw, seated beside Pluto on his gloomy throne, a queen, crowned with stars and poppies. Strangely like Proserpina she looked."

The words died away, and Ceres, knowing well that none but the king of gods could help her now, hastened to Olympus and cast herself at the feet of Jupiter.

"Listen, O father of gods and men," she said. "What is that sound which you hear rising from the earth?"

"It sounds to me," replied Jupiter, "like the wailing of men, joined with the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle. Who is afflicting my people on earth?"

"It is I," replied Ceres sternly; "I, of old their best friend. Never shall spear of grass or blade of corn show above the ground, never shall blossom or fruit appear on any tree, until my beloved daughter is brought back to me from the realm of Pluto."

Then indeed there was consternation on Olympus; for Jupiter did not wish to anger his brother, and yet, how could he let the earth continue to be barren? There was much consulting of the Fates, those three dread sisters whose decrees even Jupiter could not break, and finally Jupiter called Mercury to him, and said:

"Hasten to the lower world, and lead thence Proserpina, the daughter of Ceres. Only, if during her stay there she have allowed food to pass her lips, she shall not return."

Meanwhile, Proserpina had been dwelling in gloom. How could one whose chief care had been the flowers, whose chief joy had been to stray abroad in the sunshine with gay companions, be happy in a realm where the sun never shone, where no flowers ever grew save the white, sleep- bringing poppies, where she had no companions except the gloomy king of the dead? Pluto was kind to her, he showered jewels upon her, and gorgeous raiment; but what meant such things to her when she could not delight with them the eyes of her mother and her friends? The dead over whom she reigned she could not even make happy, and the only one who seemed to have profited at all by her coming to Hades was Pluto, who was of a certainty somewhat less stern and gloomy.

Of all the food that had been set before Proserpina since she entered Hades, nothing had tempted her but a pomegranate, and of that she had eaten but six seeds. This one taste of food, however, she soon had reason to regret, for ere long Mercury, Jupiter's messenger, stood before Pluto and cried with a flourish:

"Hear the decree of mighty Jupiter and of the Fates, powerful over all. The Lady Proserpina shall return with me, the messenger of mighty Jupiter, to the upper world. Only, if she have allowed food to pass her lips, she shall not return, but shall remain queen of the dead forever."

Proserpina turned pale—paler than her months underground had made her— but she said nothing. Then, from the throng of spirits who had crowded round to see the messenger of the gods, stepped forth one, Ascalaphus. No pity for the white-faced, sad-eyed queen moved him as he told how he had seen Proserpina eat of the pomegranate. Poor Proserpina felt that she would never see her beloved mother again, and was overwhelmed with grief when the messenger of the gods, the first cheerful personage she had seen since leaving earth, turned to depart.

Mercury was a kindly god, and he described to his father and the Fates most touchingly the grief of Proserpina. Ceres joined her tears with those of her daughter, and the Fates finally decreed that while Proserpina must spend underground one month of every year for each pomegranate seed she had eaten, she might spend the rest of her time on earth. Back hastened Mercury with the new decree, and Pluto unwillingly let his wife go. She bade him an almost affectionate farewell, for after all, he had been good to her, and she might quite have loved him had his abode been a less gloomy place. Up the dark and dangerous passages to earth Mercury conducted her, and it was strange to see how, as she stepped forth into the sunshine, her pallor and her sadness left her, and she became the bright-eyed, happy Proserpina of old. And not only in her did the change appear. About her, on all sides, the grass and corn came shooting through the dry brown earth. Violets, hyacinths, daisies were everywhere, and Proserpina stooped and caressed them, with a gay laugh. But what was her joy when she saw at the door of her home Mother Ceres, with arms outstretched to greet her! Not even the thought of the separation which must surely come again could sadden their meeting. For that day they sat together and talked of all that had happened in the weary months gone by; but the next morning Ceres mounted her dragon-car for the first time in many, many days, and set forth to the fields to tend the new grain, while Proserpina ran to the seashore and with a happy shout called the nymphs, her old companions, from their seaweed beds.

Each year thereafter, when Proserpina was led by Mercury to Pluto's kingdom, Ceres, in grief and anger, shut herself up and would not attend to her duties, so that the earth was barren and drear. Each year, with the return of Proserpina, the flash of green ran across the fields and announced her coming before she appeared in sight. And all the people, weary and depressed after the hard, bitter months, joyed with Ceres at her daughter's approach, and cried with her, "She comes! She comes! Proserpina!"

This story, like that of Phaethon, is a nature myth; that is, it accounts for natural phenomena which the Greeks saw about them. As they conceived of Ceres, the earth goddess, as the kindest of the immortals, and of her daughter, Proserpina, the goddess of flowers and beautifying vegetation, as always young and happy, they found it hard to explain the barrenness of the winter months. Why should Ceres and Proserpina neglect the earth during a part of the year, so that it would bring forth nothing, no matter how much care was bestowed upon it?

We must remember that the people who invented these stories really believed that the earth produced grain and fruit because some goddess bestowed upon it her care. They even fancied, sometimes, as they entered their fields, that they saw Ceres, with her dragon-car and her crown of wheat ears, vanishing before them. And they did not say, during winter months, "The ground is hard and frozen, and thus cannot give food to the plants;" or, "The seed must lie underground for a time before it can send its roots down and its leaves up, and bring forth fruit." They said, "Mother Ceres is neglecting the earth."

What more natural, then, than that they should imagine that the earth goddess was mourning for the loss of something and refusing to attend to her duties? And since the flowers, the special care of Ceres's daughter, disappeared at the same time, it seemed most likely that it was this daughter who had disappeared, stolen and held captive underground. When, each year, the time of her captivity was at an end, Ceres went joyfully back to her work, the flowers and grass once more appeared—in a word, it was spring.

Looked at in a slightly different way, Proserpina represented the seed which is placed underground. For a time it is held there, apparently gone forever; but at last it appears above the earth in fresher, brighter guise, just as the daughter of Ceres reappeared.

It is held by some that this myth is a symbol or allegory of the death of man and his ultimate resurrection. That, however, does not seem extremely likely, as the ancients, although they believed in the life of the soul after death, conceived of that life as something far from pleasant, even for those who had led good lives.

The story of Proserpina has been used as a subject for many paintings. One of the best-known of these is Rosetti's "Persephone," which shows her as she stands, sad-eyed, with the bitten fruit in her hand.



ORIGIN OF THE OPAL

A dewdrop came, with a spark of flame He had caught from the sun's last ray, To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest Till the hours brought back the day.

The rose looked down, with a blush and frown; But she smiled all at once, to view Her own bright form, with its coloring warm, Reflected back by the dew.

Then the stranger took a stolen look At the sky, so soft and blue; And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen, Was seen by the idler too.

A cold north wind, as he thus reclined, Of a sudden raged around; And a maiden fair, who was walking there, Next morning, an OPAL found.



IN TIME'S SWING

By Lucy Larcom

Father Time, your footsteps go Lightly as the falling snow. In your swing I'm sitting, see! Push me softly; one, two, three, Twelve times only. Like a sheet, Spread the snow beneath my feet. Singing merrily, let me swing Out of winter into spring.

Swing me out, and swing me in! Trees are bare, but birds begin Twittering to the peeping leaves, On the bough beneath the eaves Wait,—one lilac bud I saw. Icy hillsides feel the thaw; April chased off March to-day; Now I catch a glimpse of May.

Oh, the smell of sprouting grass! In a blur the violets pass. Whispering from the wildwood come Mayflower's breath and insect's hum. Roses carpeting the ground; Thrushes, orioles, warbling sound: Swing me low, and swing me high, To the warm clouds of July.

Slower now, for at my side White pond lilies open wide. Underneath the pine's tall spire Cardinal blossoms burn like fire. They are gone; the golden-rod Flashes from the dark green sod. Crickets in the grass I hear; Asters light the fading year.



Slower still! October weaves Rainbows of the forest leaves. Gentians fringed, like eyes of blue, Glimmer out of sleety dew. Meadow-green I sadly miss: Winds through withered sedges hiss. Oh, 'tis snowing, swing me fast, While December shivers past!

Frosty-bearded Father Time, Stop your footfall on the rime! Hard you push, your hand is rough; You have swung me long enough. "Nay, no stopping," say you? Well, Some of your best stories tell, While you swing me—gently, do!— From the Old Year to the New.

The title tells you that this poem is not about a real swing, under an apple tree. Why is Time asked to push "twelve times only"? What month is it when the swinging begins? How many times does the swing move in the first stanza? How many times in the second? Do the birds begin to twitter while the trees are still bare? Should we expect to see lilac buds in February or March?

Do you know the "smell of sprouting grass"? Do the violets pass in May? Does it seem to you that the author has chosen the right flowers and birds to represent each month? Do the pond lilies, the cardinal blossoms, the golden-rod, the asters, and the gentians follow each other in that order?

If you are familiar with the flowers mentioned, you will know that they almost all grow in damp, marshy places. Where do sedges grow? Does it not seem to you that the illustrations are particularly well chosen?

There is a series of beautiful little pictures in the words, "underneath the pine's tall spire cardinal blossoms burn like fire"; "the golden-rod flashes from the dark green sod"; "asters light the fading year"; "gentians fringed ...glimmer out of sleety dew."



WHY THE SEA IS SALT

By Mary Howitt

There were, in very ancient times, two brothers, one of whom was rich, and the other poor. Christmas was approaching, but the poor man had nothing in the house for a Christmas dinner; so he went to his brother and asked him for a trifling gift.

The rich man was ill-natured, and when he heard his brother's request he looked very surly. But as Christmas is a time when even the worst people give gifts, he took a fine ham down from the chimney, where it was hanging to smoke, threw it at his brother, and bade him be gone and never show his face again.

The poor man thanked his brother for the ham, put it under his arm, and went his way. He had to pass through a great forest on his way home, and when he reached the thickest part of it, he saw an old man, with a long, white beard, hewing timber. "Good evening," said the poor man.

"Good evening," returned the old man, raising himself from his work, and looking at him. "That is a fine ham you are carrying."

On hearing this, the poor man told him all about the ham and how it was obtained.

"It is lucky for you," says the old man, "that you have met with me. If you will take that ham into the land of the dwarfs, the entrance to which lies just under the roots of this tree, you can make a capital bargain with it; for the dwarfs are very fond of ham, and rarely get any. But mind what I say; you must not sell it for money, but demand for it the old hand-mill which stands behind the door. When you come back I'll show you how to use it."

The poor man thanked his new friend, who showed him the door under a stone below the roots of the tree, and by this door he entered into the land of the dwarfs. No sooner had he set foot in it than the dwarfs swarmed about him, attracted by the smell of the ham. They offered him queer, old-fashioned money and gold and silver ore for it; but he refused all their tempting offers, and said that he would sell it only for the old hand-mill behind the door. At this the dwarfs held up their little old hands and looked quite perplexed.

"We cannot make a bargain, it seems," said the poor man, "so I'll bid you all good day."

The fragrance of the ham had by this time reached the remote parts of the land. The dwarfs came flocking around in little troops, leaving their work of digging out precious ores, eager for the ham. "Let him have the old mill," said some of the newcomers; "it is quite out of order, and he does not know how to use it. Let him have it, and we will have the ham."

So the bargain was made. The poor man took the old hand-mill, which was a little thing, not half so large as the ham, and went back to the woods. Here the old man showed him how to use it. All this had taken up a great deal of time, and it was midnight before he reached home.

"Where in the world have you been?" said his wife. "Here I have been waiting and waiting, and we have no wood to make a fire, nor anything to put into the porridge-pot for our Christmas supper."



The house was dark and cold; but the poor man bade his wife wait and see what would happen. He placed the little hand-mill on the table, and began to turn the crank. First, out there came some grand, lighted wax candles, and a fire on the hearth, and a porridge-pot boiling over it, because in his mind he said they should come first. Then he ground out a tablecloth, and dishes, and spoons, and knives and forks, and napkins.

He was himself astonished at his good luck, as you may believe; and his wife was almost beside herself with joy and astonishment. Well, they had a capital supper; and after it was eaten, they ground out of the mill every possible thing to make their house and themselves warm and comfortable. So they had a merry Christmas eve and morning, made merrier by the thought that they need never want again.

When the people went by the house to church the next day, they could hardly believe their eyes. There was glass in the windows instead of wooden shutters, and the poor man and his wife, dressed in new clothes, were seen devoutly kneeling in the church.

"There is something very strange in all this," said every one.

"Something very strange indeed," said the rich man, when three days afterwards he received an invitation from his once poor brother to a grand feast. And what a feast it was! The table was covered with a cloth as white as snow, and the dishes were all of silver or gold. The rich man could not in his great house, and with all his wealth, set out such a table, or serve such food.

"Where did you get all these things?" exclaimed he. His brother told him all about the bargain he had made with the dwarfs, and putting the mill on the table, ground out boots and shoes, coats and cloaks, stockings, gowns, and blankets, and bade his wife give them to the poor people that had gathered about the house to get a sight of the grand feast the poor brother had made for the rich one, and to sniff the delightful odors that came from the kitchen.

The rich man was very envious of his brother's good fortune, and wanted to borrow the mill, intending—for he was not an honest man—never to return it again. His brother would not lend it, for the old man with the white beard had told him never to sell or lend it to any one, no matter what inducements might be offered.

Some years went by, and at last the possessor of the mill built himself a grand castle on a rock by the sea, facing west. Its windows, reflecting the golden sunset, could be seen far out from the shore, and it became a noted landmark for sailors. Strangers from foreign parts often came to see this castle and the wonderful mill, of which the most extraordinary tales were told.

At length a great foreign merchant came, and when he had seen the mill, inquired whether it would grind salt. Being told that it would, he wanted to buy it, for he traded in salt, and thought that if he owned the mill he could supply all his customers without taking long and dangerous voyages.

The man would not sell it, of course. He was so rich now that he did not want to use it for himself; but every Christmas he ground out food and clothes and coal for the poor, and nice presents for the little children. So he rejected all the offers of the rich merchant, who, however, determined to have it. He bribed one of the man's servants to let him go into the castle at night, and he stole the mill and sailed away in triumph, feeling certain that his fortune was made.

He had scarcely got out to sea before he determined to set the mill to work. "Now, mill, grind salt," said he; "grind salt with all your might!—Salt, salt, and nothing but salt!" The mill began to grind, and the sailors to fill the sacks; but these were soon full, and in spite of all that could be done, it began to fill the ship.

The dishonest merchant was now very much frightened. What was to be done? The mill would not stop grinding; and at last the ship was overloaded, and down it went, making a great whirlpool where it sank.

The ship went to pieces; but the mill stands on the bottom of the sea, and keeps grinding out "salt, salt, nothing but salt!" That is the reason, say the peasants of Denmark and Norway, why the sea is salt.

THE END