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 neighbours 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 neighbours 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 toward 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 neighbourhood?"

"Ah!" observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smite, "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 neighbours."

"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 undergarments 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 toward 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 olive wood, 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 afterward, 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 anyone 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 labour, 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 who|e 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 the 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 afterward, 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 colour was that of the
purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odour 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 arbour, 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."

"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They
certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily
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 stunted vine that climbed against the cottage
wall.

"Very admirable grapes these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one
after another, without apparently 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 marvels
which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was
incapable 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 fully satisfied that it
contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld
a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher,
and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant
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 needy wayfarer!"

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their
place of repose. 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 reverence, 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 pointed 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 planks, 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 hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer,
until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, 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 remarkable, 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 mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it.
But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good humoured 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 neighbours 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, vehemently. "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 grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon
dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they
had been gazing at the sky.

"When men do not feel toward 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 abode of a great human brotherhood!"

"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the
liveliest look of fun and mischief 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 toward the valley, where, at sunset, only
the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the
clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing
in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, 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 bosom with as
tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the
world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly 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 murmur,
against the hither shore.

The lake seemed so strangely familiar that the old couple were greatly
perplexed, 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 the kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor
neighbours?"

"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 softened 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 bosoms; 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 scaly 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 broiled trout, he can
throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbours!"

"Ah," cried Baucis, shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of
them on the gridiron!"

"No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"

"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveller--"and you,
kind Baucis--you, with your scanty means, have mingled 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 viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You
have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favour
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!"

"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness, "Now, look
toward your cottage!"

They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of
white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their
humble 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-humoured, 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
curmudgeon happened to sip, 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 spacious palace,
and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they
espied, 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 foliage
overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the
other a linden tree. Their boughs--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 marvelling 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 talked together in the depths of their mutual 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 afterward the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty
used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the
miraculous pitcher.

And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!