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
stump 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 decided 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 frugal 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 lodging, 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 Providence
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 toiled diligently 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 ripened 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 glided to and fro in the
depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills
had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But,
as the waters subsided, 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 brook, which meandered 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 gratitude to
Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.
But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not
worthy 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 pelting 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 scampered
to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would
seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he
were ragged 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 lame, 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 obsequious 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 yelp, 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 spoke so sorrowfully, when he
heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the
farther extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, 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 eminence 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 shrill 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 disdaining to notice either the naughty children, or the
pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.
Both of the travellers were very humbly 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 hospitable an aspect that there
was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest
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 benign smile, "Providence
put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you
what amends 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 rascals!) 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 muzzle 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 precisely 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
beheld. 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 skilfully
executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather
dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling 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 trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from
the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings,
it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the
cottage. There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to
wriggle. 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 remarkably 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
rippling over their dwellings again!"
The traveller looked so stern, that Philemon was really almost
frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight 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 kindly 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 attired 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 garb, despising wealth and all worldly
objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite 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 sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely
loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty 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 awe of the elder stranger, if, on
venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his
visage. But, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so
humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with
gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly 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 garrulously, 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 labor, always poor, but still contented. 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 countenance, 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 kindled 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 morsel, 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 dame," replied
the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest, hearty welcome to a guest works
miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to
nectar and ambrosia."
"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 auditors, 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 recollect,
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 hopping 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 scanty 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. Alas! 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 plentiful 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 draught.
"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 astonishment 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 quaffing 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 forth. What was her surprise, therefore,
when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was
immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed 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 fragrance 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
palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of
the oven. Tasting a crumb, 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 exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the
purest and most transparent 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
immortal 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 delightful, that,
had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low
ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with
celestial 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 helping 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."
"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will these are very uncommon
people."