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!
CHAPTER VIII
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was
a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and,
that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country, to live with him, and be his
playfellow and helpmate.
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