THE SEA

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

From “Treasure Island,” by permission.

No man is born into the world whose workIs not born with him: there is always work,And tools to work withal, for those who will;And blesséd are the horny hands of toil.—Lowell.

The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!The blue, the fresh, the ever free!Without a mark, without a bound,It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;Or like a cradled creature lies.I’m on the Sea! I’m on the Sea!I am where I would ever be,With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence whereso’er I go:If a storm should come, and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.I love, oh, how I love, to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft its tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow!I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest:And a mother she was and is to me;For I was born on the open Sea!

I’m on the Sea! I’m on the Sea!I am where I would ever be,With the blue above, and the blue below,And silence whereso’er I go:If a storm should come, and awake the deep,What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love, to rideOn the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,When every mad wave drowns the moon,Or whistles aloft its tempest tune,And tells how goeth the world below,And why the south-west blasts do blow!

I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great Sea more and more,And backwards flew to her billowy breast,Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest:And a mother she was and is to me;For I was born on the open Sea!

The SeaJames.

The Sea

James.

The waves were white, and red the morn,In the noisy hour when I was born;And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;And never was heard such an outcry wildAs welcomed to life the Ocean-child.I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,With wealth to spend, and power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!—Bryan Waller Procter.

I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,With wealth to spend, and power to range,But never have sought, nor sighed for change;And Death, whenever he comes to me,Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!—Bryan Waller Procter.

Archibald Lampman

The wind charged every way, and fledAcross the meadows and the wheat;It whirled the swallows overhead,And swung the daisies at my feet.As if in mockery of me,And all the deadness of my thought,It mounted to the largest glee,And, like a lord that laughed and fought,Took all the maples by surprise,And made the poplars clash and shiver,And flung my hair about my eyes,And sprang and blackened on the river.And through the elm-tree tops, and roundThe city steeples wild and high,It floundered with a mighty sound,A buoyant voice that seemed to cry,—“Behold how grand I am, how free!And all the forest bends my way!I roam the earth, I stalk the sea,And make my labor but a play.”—Archibald Lampman.

The wind charged every way, and fledAcross the meadows and the wheat;It whirled the swallows overhead,And swung the daisies at my feet.

As if in mockery of me,And all the deadness of my thought,It mounted to the largest glee,And, like a lord that laughed and fought,Took all the maples by surprise,And made the poplars clash and shiver,And flung my hair about my eyes,And sprang and blackened on the river.

And through the elm-tree tops, and roundThe city steeples wild and high,It floundered with a mighty sound,A buoyant voice that seemed to cry,—

“Behold how grand I am, how free!And all the forest bends my way!I roam the earth, I stalk the sea,And make my labor but a play.”—Archibald Lampman.

It was about twelve at noon, and a servant brought in dinner. It was only one substantial meal of meat, fit for the plain condition of a husbandman, in a dish of about four-and-twenty feet diameter. The company consisted of the farmer and his wife, three children, and an old grandmother. When they were seated, the farmer placed me at some distance from him on the table, which was thirty feet high from the floor.

I was in a terrible fright, and kept as far as I could from the edge, for fear of falling. The wife minced a bit of meat, then crumbled some bread on a trencher, and placed itbefore me. I made her a low bow, took out my knife and fork, and fell to eating, which gave them exceeding delight. The mistress sent her maid for a small dram cup, which held about two gallons, and filled it with drink. I took up the vessel with much difficulty in both hands, and in a most respectful manner drank to her ladyship’s health, expressing the words as loudly as I could in English: which made the company laugh so heartily that I was almost deafened with the noise. This liquor tasted like cider, and was not unpleasant.

Dean Swift

Then the master made me a sign to come to his side; but, as I walked on the table, being in great surprise all the time, I happened to stumble against a crust, and fell flat on my face, but received no hurt. I got up immediately, and, observing the good people to be in much concern, I took my hat, which I held under my arm, out of good manners, and, waving it over my head, gave three cheers to show I had received no mischief by my fall.

On advancing towards my master, his youngest son, who sat next to him, an arch boy of about ten years old, took me up by the legs, and held me so high in the air that I trembled in every limb; but his father snatched me from him, and at the same time gave him such a box on the leftear as would have felled a European troop of horse to the earth, and ordered him to be taken from the table. As I was afraid the boy might owe me a spite, I fell on my knees, and, pointing to him, made my master to understand as well as I could that I desired his son might be pardoned. The father complied, and the lad took his seat again; whereupon I went to him and kissed his hand, which my master took, and made him stroke me gently with it.

In the midst of dinner, my mistress’s favorite cat leaped into her lap. I heard a noise behind me like that of a dozen stocking weavers at work; and, turning my head, I found it proceeded from the purring of that animal, who seemed to be three times larger than an ox, as I computed by the view of her head and one of her paws, while her mistress was feeding and stroking her. The fierceness of the cat’s countenance altogether discomposed me, though I stood at the farther end of the table, above fifty feet off, and though my mistress held her fast, for fear she might give a spring and seize me in her talons. But it happened that there was no danger, for she took not the least notice of me, although my master placed me within three yards of her.

As I have been always told, and have found true by experience in my travels, that flying, or discovering fear before a fierce animal, is a certain way to make it pursue or attack you, I resolved, in this dangerous juncture, to show no manner of concern. I walked with intrepidity five or six times before the very head of the cat, and camewithin half a yard of her; whereupon she drew herself back, as if she were afraid of me. I had less apprehension concerning the dogs, whereof three or four came into the room,—as it is usual in farmers’ houses,—one of which was a mastiff, equal in bulk to four elephants, and a greyhound somewhat taller than the mastiff, but not so large.

—Jonathan Swift.

W. C. Bryant

Whither midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest.Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.—William Cullen Bryant.

Whither midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.—William Cullen Bryant.

Though the mills of God grind slowly,Yet they grind exceeding small.—Longfellow.

’Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose-bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushesOr give sigh for sigh.I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bedWhere thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from Love’s shining circleThe gems drop away.When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?—Thomas Moore.

’Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rose-bud is nigh,To reflect back her blushesOr give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o’er the bedWhere thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from Love’s shining circleThe gems drop away.When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?—Thomas Moore.

“The yeomen and commons,” said De Bracy, “must not be dismissed discontented for lack of their share in the sports.”

“The day,” said Waldemar, “is not yet very far spent—let the archers shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged. This will be an abundant fulfilment of the Prince’s promises, so far as this herd of Saxon serfs is concerned.”

Sir Walter Scott

“I thank thee, Waldemar,” said Prince John; “thou remindest me, too, that I have a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who yesterday insulted my person. The banquet also shall go forward to-night as we proposed. Were this my last hour of power, it should be an hour sacred to revenge and to pleasure—let new cares come with to-morrow’s new day.”

The sound of the trumpet soon recalled those spectators who had already begun to leave the field; and proclamation was made that the Prince, suddenly called by high public duties, was obliged to discontinue the entertainments of to-morrow’s festival; nevertheless, unwilling that so many good yeomen should depart without a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint that the archery competition intended for to-morrow should take place at once.To the best archer a prize was to be awarded,—a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric, richly ornamented with a medallion of St. Hubert, the patron of woodland sport.

More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors, several of whom were rangers and underkeepers in the royal forests. When, however, the archers understood with whom they were to be matched, upwards of twenty withdrew from the contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonor of almost certain defeat. The diminished list of competitors, however, still amounted to eight. Prince John, before the contest began, stepped from his royal seat to view more nearly the persons of these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the royal livery. Having satisfied his curiosity, he looked for the object of his resentment, whom he observed standing on the same spot, and with the same composed countenance which he had shown upon the preceding day.

“Fellow,” said Prince John, “I guessed by thy insolent babble thou wert no true lover of the longbow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill among such merry men as stand yonder.”

“Under favor, sir,” replied the yeoman, “I have another reason for refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace.”

“And what is thy other reason?” said Prince John, who, for some cause which perhaps he could not himself have explained, felt a painful curiosity respecting this individual.

“Because,” replied the woodsman, “I know not if these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how your Grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has unwittingly fallen under your displeasure.”

Prince John colored as he put the question, “What is thy name, yeoman?”

“Locksley,” answered the yeoman.

“Then, Locksley,” said Prince John, “thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I shall add to it twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be stripped of thy Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent braggart.”

“And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager?” said the yeoman. “Your Grace’s power, supported as it is by so many men-at-arms, may indeed easily strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend or to draw my bow.”

“If thou refusest my fair proffer,” said the Prince, “the provost of the lists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee from the presence as a faint-hearted craven.”

“This is no fair chance you put on me, proud Prince,” said the yeoman, “to compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester and Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me. Nevertheless, I shall obey your will.”

Locksley Discharging his Arrow

“Look to him close, men-at-arms,” said Prince John; “his heart is sinking; I am jealous lest he attempt to escape the trial. And do you, good fellows, shoot boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine are ready for your refreshment in yonder tent when the prize is won.”

A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to the lists. One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near it that, considering the distance of the mark, it was accounted good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.

“Now, Locksley,” said Prince John to the bold yeoman, with a bitter smile, “wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert?”

“Since it be no better,” said Locksley, “I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert’s, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose.”

“That is but fair,” answered Prince John, “and it shall not be refused thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I shall fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee.”

“A man can but do his best,” answered Hubert; “but my grandsire drew a good longbow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonor his memory.”

The former target was now removed, and a fresh one ofthe same size placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation. At length he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasping place was nigh level with his face, he drew the bowstring to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre.

“You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert,” said his antagonist, bending his bow, “or that had been a better shot.”

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.

“By the light of heaven!” said Prince John to Hubert, “an thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows.”

Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions.

“An your highness were to hang me,” he said, “a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow—”

“The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!” interrupted John; “shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee.”

Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target.

“A Hubert! a Hubert!” shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a stranger. “In the clout!—in the clout!—a Hubert forever!”

“Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley,” said the Prince, with an insulting smile.

“I shall notch his shaft for him, however,” replied Locksley.

And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful dexterity that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their usual clamor. “This must be the fiend, and no man of flesh and blood,” whispered the yeomen to each other; “such archery has never been seen since a bow was first bent in Britain.”

“And now,” said Locksley, “I crave your Grace’s permission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonnie lass he loves best.”

He then turned to leave the lists. “Let your guards attend me,” he said, “if you please—I go but to cut a rod from the nearest willow bush.”

Prince John made a signal that some attendants shouldfollow him in case of his escape; but the cry of “Shame! shame!” which burst from the multitude, induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose.

Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man’s thumb. He began to peel this with great composure, observing, at the same time, that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his skill. A child of seven years old, he said, might hit it with a headless shaft; but, he added, walking deliberately to the other end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, “he that hits that rod at fivescore yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a king, even if it were the stout King Richard himself.”

“My grandsire,” said Hubert, “drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a mark in his life—and neither shall I. If this yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers—or rather, I yield to the fiend that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill. I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson’s whittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly see.”

“Cowardly dog!” said Prince John. “Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such a mark, I shall say thou art the first man ever did so. Howe’er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill.”

“I shall do my best, as Hubert says,” said Locksley; “no man can do more.”

So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked with attention to his weapon, and changed the string which he thought was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of his skill; his arrow split the willow rod against which it was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley’s skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his person. “These twenty nobles,” he said, “which, with the bugle thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we shall make them fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our bodyguard, and be near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft.”

“Pardon me, noble Prince,” said Locksley; “but I have vowed that if ever I take service, it shall be with your royal brother, King Richard. These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had he not refused the trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I.”

Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed with the crowd and was seen no more.—Sir Walter Scott.

I stood upon the plainThat had trembled, when the slainHurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe,When the steed dashed right and left,Through the bloody gaps he cleft,When the bridle-rein was broken, and the rider was laid low.What busy feet had trodUpon the very sodWhen I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my aid!And I saw the combat dire,Heard the quick, incessant fire,And the cannons’ echoes startling the reverberating glade.I heard the chorus dire,That jarred along the lyreOn which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave,When the storm, at blackest night,Wakes the ocean in affright,As it shouts its mighty Pibroch o’er some shipwrecked vessel’s grave.I saw the broad claymoreFlash from its scabbard, o’erThe ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce attack;When victory gave the word,Auld Scotia drew the sword,And with arms that never faltered drove the brave defenders back.I saw two great chiefs die,Their last breaths like the sighOf the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of morn;No enemy-poisoned darts,No rancor in their hearts,To unfit them for their triumph over death’s impending scorn.And as I thought and gazed,My soul, exultant, praisedThe power to whom each mighty act and victory are due;For the saint-like peace that smiledLike a heaven-gifted child,And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view.Oh, rare, divinest lifeOf peace compared with strife!Yours is the truest splendor, and the most enduring fame;All the glory ever reapedWhere the fiends of battle leaped,In harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim.—Charles Sangster.

What busy feet had trodUpon the very sodWhen I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my aid!And I saw the combat dire,Heard the quick, incessant fire,And the cannons’ echoes startling the reverberating glade.

I heard the chorus dire,That jarred along the lyreOn which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave,When the storm, at blackest night,Wakes the ocean in affright,As it shouts its mighty Pibroch o’er some shipwrecked vessel’s grave.

I saw the broad claymoreFlash from its scabbard, o’erThe ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce attack;When victory gave the word,Auld Scotia drew the sword,And with arms that never faltered drove the brave defenders back.

I saw two great chiefs die,Their last breaths like the sighOf the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of morn;No enemy-poisoned darts,No rancor in their hearts,To unfit them for their triumph over death’s impending scorn.

And as I thought and gazed,My soul, exultant, praisedThe power to whom each mighty act and victory are due;For the saint-like peace that smiledLike a heaven-gifted child,And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view.

Oh, rare, divinest lifeOf peace compared with strife!Yours is the truest splendor, and the most enduring fame;All the glory ever reapedWhere the fiends of battle leaped,In harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim.—Charles Sangster.

Still runs the water when the brook is deep.

Mrs. Hemans

They grew in beauty side by side,They fill’d one home with glee;Their graves are sever’d far and wideBy mount and stream and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO’er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight:Where are those dreamers now?One ’midst the forests of the WestBy a dark stream is laid;The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar-shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one;He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO’er his low bed may weep!One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain;He wrapt his colors round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o’er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fann’d;She faded ’midst Italian flowers;The last of that bright band.And parted thus they rest who play’dBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they pray’dAround one parent knee!They that with smiles lit up the hallAnd cheer’d with mirth the hearth;Alas, for love! if thou wert all,And naught beyond, O Earth!—Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

They grew in beauty side by side,They fill’d one home with glee;Their graves are sever’d far and wideBy mount and stream and sea.

The same fond mother bent at nightO’er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight:Where are those dreamers now?

One ’midst the forests of the WestBy a dark stream is laid;The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one;He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, yet noneO’er his low bed may weep!

One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain;He wrapt his colors round his breastOn a blood-red field of Spain.

And one—o’er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fann’d;She faded ’midst Italian flowers;The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest who play’dBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they pray’dAround one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hallAnd cheer’d with mirth the hearth;Alas, for love! if thou wert all,And naught beyond, O Earth!—Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his wife Baucis sat at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They talked together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and their grape vine on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple.

The 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 food and lodging in the village yonder, and our neighbors have set their dogs at him, as their custom is.”

“Welladay!” answered Baucis, “I do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures.”

“I never heard the dogs so loud!” observed the good old man.

“Nor the children so rude!” answered his good old wife.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

They sat shaking their heads, while the noise came nearer and nearer, until, at the foot of the little hill 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. The travellers were very humbly clad, 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 people.”

“Go you and meet them,” answered Baucis, “while I make haste within doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper.”

Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon went forward and extended his hand, saying in the heartiest tone, “Welcome, strangers! welcome!”

“Thank you,” replied the younger of the two, in a livelykind of a way. “This is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder in the village.”

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. 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, the traveller wore a cloak, which he kept wrapped closely about him. Philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes. He was so wonderfully light and active that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord.

“I used to be light-footed in my youth,” said Philemon to the traveller. “But I always find 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 olive wood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes carved in the wood were twining themselves about the staff, and old Philemon almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting. Before he could ask any questions, however, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff by speaking to him.

“Was there not,” asked the stranger, in a deep tone ofvoice, “a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?”

“Not in my time, 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 trees, and the stream murmuring through the midst of the valley.”

The stranger shook his head. “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!” He looked so stern that Philemon was almost frightened; the more so, that when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air.

While Baucis was getting the supper, the travellers both began to talk with Philemon.

“Pray, my friend,” asked the old man of the younger stranger, “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 me well.”

“Quicksilver? Quicksilver?” repeated Philemon. “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. “No other voice is loud enough.”

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.

“All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my gooddame,” replied the elder stranger, kindly. “An honest, hearty welcome to a guest turns the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia.”

The supper was exceedingly small, and the travellers drank all the milk in their bowls at one 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,” said Baucis, in great confusion, “I am sorry and ashamed; but the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher.”

“It appears to me,” cried Quicksilver, taking the pitcher by the handle, “that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly more milk in the pitcher.” And to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded tofill not only his own bowl, but his companion’s likewise. The good woman could scarcely believe her eyes.

“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 is empty now.”

“What excellent milk!” observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the entire contents of the second bowl. “Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask you for a little more.”

Baucis turned the pitcher upside down to show that there was not a drop left. What was her surprise, therefore, when such a stream of milk fell bubbling into the bowl that it was filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table.

“And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis,” said Quicksilver, “and a little honey!”

Baucis cut him a slice accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather dry and crusty, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. But, oh, the honey! Its color was that of the purest gold, and it had the odor of a thousand flowers. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelled.

Baucis could not but think that there was something out of the common in all that had been going on. So, after helping the guests, she sat down by Philemon, and told him what she had seen.

“Did you ever hear the like?” she whispered.

“No, I never did,” answered Philemon, with a smile. “And I rather think, my dear wife, that there happened tobe a little more in the pitcher than you thought—that is all.”

“Another cup of this delicious milk,” said Quicksilver, “and I shall then have supped better than a prince.”

This time old Philemon took up the pitcher himself; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in what Baucis had whispered to him. 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. It was lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand. He quickly set it down and cried out, “Who are ye, wonder-working strangers?”

“Your guests, Philemon, and your friends!” replied the elder traveller, in his mild, deep voice. “We are your guests and friends, and may your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, nor for the needy wayfarers!”

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose. When left alone the good old couple spent some time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down to sleep.

The old man and his wife were stirring betimes the next morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. They asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them a short distance and show them the road.

“Ah me!” exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. “If our neighbors knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone.”

“It is a sin and a shame for them to behave so!” cried good old Baucis.

“My dear friends,” cried Quicksilver, with the liveliest look of mischief in his eyes, “where is this village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie?”

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 street, the children playing in it. But what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile valley 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.

“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 in the distance. “There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; therefore the lake that was of old has spread itself forth again to reflect the sky.

“As for you, good Philemon,” continued the elder traveller,—“and you, kind Baucis,—you, with your scantymeans, have done well, my dear old friends. Request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted.” Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then 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!”

“Be it so!” replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. “Now look towards your cottage.”

They did so. What was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble on the spot where their humble residence had stood.

“There is your home,” said the stranger, smiling on them both. “Show your kindness in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening.”

The astonished old people 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 in making everybody happy and comfortable who happened to pass that way. They lived in their palace a very 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. The guests searched everywhere, but all to no purpose. At last they espied in front of the door, two venerable trees, which no one had ever seen there before. One was an oak and the other a linden tree.

While the guests were marvelling how these trees could have come to be so tall in a single night, a breeze sprang up and set their boughs astir. Then there was a deep murmur in the air, as if the two trees were speaking.

“I am Philemon!” murmured the oak.

“I am Baucis!” murmured the linden tree.

And oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound could so much resemble words like these,—

“Welcome, welcome, dear traveller, welcome!”

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