And when, and where, do you think we find the children next? No longer in the winter-time, but in the merry month of May. No longer in Tanglewood play-room, or at Tanglewood fireside, but more than half-way up a monstrous3 hill, or a mountain, as perhaps it would be better pleased to have us call it. They had set out from home with the mighty4 purpose of climbing this high hill, even to the very tip-top of its bald head. To be sure, it was not quite so high as Chimborazo, or Mont Blanc, and was even a good deal lower than old Graylock. But, at any rate, it was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks, or a million of mole-hills; and, when measured by the short strides of little children, might be reckoned a very respectable mountain.
And was Cousin Eustace with the party? Of that you may be certain; else how could the book go on a step further? He was now in the middle of the spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw him four or five months ago, except that, if you gazed quite closely at his upper lip, you could discern the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it. Setting aside this mark of mature manhood, you might have considered Cousin Eustace just as much a boy as when you first became acquainted with him. He was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light of foot and of spirits, and equally a favorite with the little folks, as he had always been. This expedition up the mountain was entirely5 of his contrivance. All the way up the steep ascent6, he had encouraged the elder children with his cheerful voice; and when Dandelion, Cowslip, and Squash-Blossom grew weary, he had lugged7 them along, alternately, on his back. In this manner, they had passed through the orchards8 and pastures on the lower part of the hill, and had reached the wood, which extends thence towards its bare summit.
The month of May, thus far, had been more amiable9 than it often is, and this was as sweet and genial10 a day as the heart of man or child could wish. In their progress up the hill, the small people had found enough of violets, blue and white, and some that were as golden as if they had the touch of Midas on them. That sociablest of flowers, the little Houstonia, was very abundant. It is a flower that never lives alone, but which loves its own kind, and is always fond of dwelling11 with a great many friends and relatives around it. Sometimes you see a family of them, covering a space no bigger than the palm of your hand; and sometimes a large community, whitening a whole tract12 of pasture, and all keeping one another in cheerful heart and life.
Within the verge13 of the wood there were columbines, looking more pale than red, because they were so modest, and had thought proper to seclude14 themselves too anxiously from the sun. There were wild geraniums, too, and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry. The trailing arbutus was not yet quite out of bloom; but it hid its precious flowers under the last year's withered15 forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird hides its little young ones. It knew, I suppose, how beautiful and sweet-scented they were. So cunning was their concealment17, that the children sometimes smelt18 the delicate richness of their perfume before they knew whence it proceeded.
Amid so much new life, it was strange and truly pitiful to behold19, here and there, in the fields and pastures, the hoary20 periwigs of dandelions that had already gone to seed. They had done with summer before the summer came. Within those small globes of winged seeds it was autumn now!
Well, but we must not waste our valuable pages with any more talk about the spring-time and wild flowers. There is something, we hope, more interesting to be talked about. If you look at the group of children, you may see them all gathered around Eustace Bright, who, sitting on the stump21 of a tree, seems to be just beginning a story. The fact is, the younger part of the troop have found out that it takes rather too many of their short strides to measure the long ascent of the hill. Cousin Eustace, therefore, has decided22 to leave Sweet Fern, Cowslip, Squash-Blossom, and Dandelion, at this point, midway up, until the return of the rest of the party from the summit. And because they complain a little, and do not quite like to stay behind, he gives them some apples out of his pocket, and proposes to tell them a very pretty story. Hereupon they brighten up, and change their grieved looks into the broadest kind of smiles.
As for the story, I was there to hear it, hidden behind a bush, and shall tell it over to you in the pages that come next.
The Miraculous Pitcher
One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat at their cottage-door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had already eaten their frugal23 supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.
"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveller is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging24, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"
"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!"
"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence25 affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger, that may come along and need it."
"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!"
These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled26 diligently27 in his garden, while Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had ripened28 against the cottage wall. But they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveller who might pause before their door. They felt as if such guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves.
Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably been the bed of a lake. There, fishes had glided30 to and fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin31, and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But, as the waters subsided32, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small brook33, which meandered34 through the midst of the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had been dry land so long, that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude35 to Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.
But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not worthy36 to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently. They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed, had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I am going to tell you. These naughty people taught their children to be no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting37 him with stones. They kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveller ventured to show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered38 to meet him, barking, snarling39, and showing their teeth. Then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged40 when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away. This was a very terrible thing to poor travellers, as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame41, or old. Such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again.
What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and obsequious42 than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp44, his master instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke45 so sorrowfully, when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the farther extremity46 of the village street. There was a confused din29, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the valley.
"I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man.
"Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife.
They sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence47 on which their cottage stood, they saw two travellers approaching on foot. Close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill48 cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along, as if disdaining49 to notice either the naughty children, or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.
Both of the travellers were very humbly50 clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely.
"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor people. No doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill."
"Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits."
Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable51 an aspect that there was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest52 tone imaginable,—
"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"
"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder in the village. Pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?"
"Ah!" observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign53 smile, "Providence put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you what amends54 I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors."
"Well said, old father!" cried the traveller, laughing; "and, if the truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children (the little rascals55!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. But I took him across the muzzle56 with my staff; and I think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off."
Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you have fancied, by the traveller's look and manner, that he was weary with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely57 tell in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly, seemed queer. The traveller was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by an effort.
"I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveller. "But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall."
"There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see."
This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever beheld58. It was made of olivewood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skilfully59 executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling60 and twisting.
"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!"
By this time, Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.
"Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper. We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard."
The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his staff fall, as he did so. And here happened something rather marvellous, though trifling61 enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped62, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle63. But, in my private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks again.
Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.
"Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably64 deep tone of voice, "a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?"
"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"
"That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. "Since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling66 over their dwellings67 again!"
The traveller looked so stern, that Philemon was really almost frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight68 seemed suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air.
But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly69 and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveller must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be attired70 so humbly and to be journeying on foot. Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor garb71, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite72 to his wisdom. This idea appeared the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime.
While Baucis was getting the supper, the travellers both began to talk very sociably73 with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious74, and made such shrewd and witty75 remarks, that the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day.
"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what may I call your name?"
"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveller. "So, if you call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."
"Quicksilver? Quicksilver?" repeated Philemon, looking in the traveller's face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd name! And your companion there? Has he as strange a one?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell it you!" replied Quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough."
This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused Philemon to conceive a very great awe76 of the elder stranger, if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his visage. But, undoubtedly77, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed78, it was with gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly79 moved to tell him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.
But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously80, about the events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor81, always poor, but still contented82. He told what excellent butter and cheese Baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together.
As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance83, and made its expression as sweet as it was grand.
"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted."
And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled84 a sudden light in the sky.
Baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests.
"Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would have gone without a morsel85, rather than you should lack a better supper. But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when a poor traveller knocks at our door."
"All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame86," replied the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest, hearty87 welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia88."
"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."
"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing, "an absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely I will play my part at it! I think I never felt hungrier in my life."
"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has such a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough supper!"
They all went into the cottage.
And now, my little auditors89, shall I tell you something that will make you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest circumstances in the whole story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect90, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. Well; when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping91 and fluttering up the door steps! Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no notice was given to what the staff had been about.
As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty92 supper for two hungry travellers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. A moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher. Alas93! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful94 supper.
And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their very first sitting down, the travellers both drank off all the milk in their two bowls, at a draught95.
"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said Quicksilver. "The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst."
"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so sorry and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. O husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?"
"Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from table and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly more milk in the pitcher."
So saying, and to the vast astonishment96 of Baucis, he proceeded to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher, that was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table.
"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. I suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."
"What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing98 the contents of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask you for a little more."
Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course, there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream forth99. What was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade100 fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed101 upon the table! The two snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.
And then what a delicious fragrance102 the milk had! It seemed as if Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at supper-time!
"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver, "and a little of that honey!"
Baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable103, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. Tasting a crumb104, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could it possibly be?
But, oh the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely105 it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the purest and most transparent106 gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal107 bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful108, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor109, with celestial110 honeysuckles creeping over it.
Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think that there was something rather out of the common way, in all that had been going on. So, after helping111 the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper.
"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.
"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "And I rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at once. There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,—that is all."
"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily113 glad to see them making so comfortable a supper."
Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate. Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted114 vine that climbed against the cottage wall.
"Very admirable grapes these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one after another, without apparently115 diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my good host, whence did you gather them?"
"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the grapes very fine ones."
"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a prince."
This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels116 which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was incapable117 of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully16 satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed118 up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming119 and deliciously fragrant120 milk. It was lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand.
"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers!" cried he, even more bewildered than his wife had been.
"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder traveller, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy121 wayfarer122!"
The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose123. The old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveller had inspired them with such reverence124, that they dared not ask him any questions. And when Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed125 to his staff.
"There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if you can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. If I had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!"
He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks126, which I wish had been as soft as their own hearts.
The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. Philemon hospitably127 entreated128 them to remain a little longer, until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth129, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however, seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take.
So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old friends. It was very remarkable130, indeed, how familiar the old couple insensibly grew with the elder traveller, and how their good and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous131, with the snakes always writhing132 about it. But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long.
"Ah me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. "If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone."
"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,—that it is!" cried good old Baucis, vehemently133. "And I mean to go this very day, and tell some of them what naughty people they are!"
"I fear," remarked Quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none of them at home."
The elder traveller's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and awful grandeur134, yet serene135 withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently136 into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky.
"When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a brother," said the traveller, in tones so deep that they sounded like those of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the abode137 of a great human brotherhood138!"
"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief139 in his eyes, "where is this same village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I do not see it hereabouts."
Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps140 of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment141, and prosperity. But what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom142 with as tranquil143 an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly144 smooth. Then, a little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur65, against the hither shore.
The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly perplexed145, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday, and now was gone!
"Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor neighbors?"
"They exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveller, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened146 or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no image of the better life in their bosoms147; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"
"And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but little change, for they were already a scaly148 set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled149 trout150, he can throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!"
"All," cried Baucis, shuddering151, "I would not, for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!"
"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveller,—"and you, kind Baucis,—you, with your scanty means, have mingled154 so much heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off the same viands155 that supply their banquets on Olympus. You have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then,—I know not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their hearts.
"Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!"
They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding157 a tall edifice158 of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their humble43 residence had so lately stood!
"There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."
The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he nor Quicksilver was there.
So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvellous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon159 happened to sip160, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!
Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious161 palace, and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied162, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage163 overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the other a linden-tree. Their boughs164—it was strange and beautiful to see—were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own.
While the guests were marvelling165 how these trees, that must have required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking.
"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.
"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden-tree.
But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at once,—"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"—as if one were both and both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual166 heart. It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them. Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:—
"Welcome, welcome, dear traveller, welcome!"
And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff97 milk abundantly out of the miraculous pitcher.
And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!
The Hill-Side
After the Story
"How much did the pitcher hold?" asked Sweet Fern. "It did not hold quite a quart," answered the student; "but you might keep pouring milk out of it, till you should fill a hogshead, if you pleased. The truth is, it would run on forever, and not be dry even at midsummer,—which is more than can be said of yonder rill, that goes babbling167 down the hill-side."
"And what has become of the pitcher now?" inquired the little boy.
"It was broken, I am sorry to say, about twenty-five thousand years ago," replied Cousin Eustace. "The people mended it as well as they could, but, though it would hold milk pretty well, it was never afterwards known to fill itself of its own accord. So, you see, it was no better than any other cracked earthen pitcher."
"What a pity!" cried all the children at once.
The respectable dog Ben had accompanied the party, as did likewise a half-grown Newfoundland puppy, who went by the name of Bruin, because he was just as black as a bear. Ben, being elderly, and of very circumspect168 habits, was respectfully requested, by Cousin Eustace, to stay behind with the four little children, in order to keep them out of mischief. As for black Bruin, who was himself nothing but a child, the student thought it best to take him along, lest, in his rude play with the other children, he should trip them up, and send them rolling and tumbling down the hill. Advising Cowslip, Sweet Fern, Dandelion, and Squash-Blossom to sit pretty still, in the spot where he left them, the student, with Primrose169 and the elder children, began to ascend170, and were soon out of sight among the trees.
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1
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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seclude
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| vi.使隔离，使孤立，使隐退 | |
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15
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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18
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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26
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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27
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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30
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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33
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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34
meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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40
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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42
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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43
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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44
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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45
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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46
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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47
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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48
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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49
disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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50
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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51
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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52
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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53
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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54
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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55
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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56
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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57
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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58
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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59
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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60
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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61
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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62
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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63
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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64
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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65
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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66
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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68
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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72
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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73
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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76
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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77
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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79
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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80
garrulously
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81
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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82
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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83
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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84
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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85
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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86
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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87
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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88
ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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89
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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90
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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91
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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92
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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93
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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94
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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95
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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96
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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97
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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98
quaffing
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| v.痛饮( quaff的现在分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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99
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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100
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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101
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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102
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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103
palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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104
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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105
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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106
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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107
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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108
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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109
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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110
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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111
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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112
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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113
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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114
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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115
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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116
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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117
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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118
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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119
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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120
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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121
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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122
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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123
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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124
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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125
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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126
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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127
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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128
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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130
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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131
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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132
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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133
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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134
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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135
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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136
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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137
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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138
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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139
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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140
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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141
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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142
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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143
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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144
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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145
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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146
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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147
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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148
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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149
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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150
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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151
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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152
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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153
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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154
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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155
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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156
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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157
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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158
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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159
curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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160
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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161
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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162
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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164
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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165
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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166
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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167
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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168
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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169
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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170
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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