And the wind
blew continuously, a mournful sound at times steady, but more
frequently gusting in sudden fury. The trees swayed wildly under
the ministrations of Aeolus.
The deer, driven by the storm, drifted more rapidly toward the
valley for shelter. They were small, at times indistinguishable
because of the distance. Still could he make out, or so
imagined, antlered bucks among them. The best of these would
fall to his arrow. In spite of the weather he would indeed be
there by sundown. It would be a good hunt. In his mind he could
smell the cooking venison.
Ceres watched her world with happy smiles. Soft rains nurtured
the crops, and harvests would be bountiful. Bees from flower to
flower flew, humming as they went their industrious way. Grain
grew tall, and every tree limb bent low, weighted with its
fruit. Grapes were bounteous, green grapes and blue, others
purple and red.
Ceres watched with jealous heart. Every seed to her was sacred.
If but one failed to put forth its plant she fretted. If several
slept lazily under the fertile soil her lips tightened in
concern. A limb that bore no fruit, a plant that failed to
flower - all drew from her the like concern.
Yet she was happy, for though man must toil to reap, his
rewards were plentiful. The grapes, swollen purple, ready to
burst with sweetness, soon would go to press. Bacchus would
receive his devotees, frolicking, carousing, and celebrating
joyful times.
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