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 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 traveler, 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 quaff milk abundantly out
of the miraculous pitcher.

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

[Illustration]

THE HILL-SIDE

[Illustration]

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
babbling 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 bl