The Miraculous Pitcher
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> The Miraculous Pitcher
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A WONDER-BOOK FOR GIRLS AND BOYS
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
CONTENTS:
THE HILLSIDE.--Introductory to "The Miraculous Pitcher"
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
THE HILLSIDE--After the Story
INTRODUCTORY TO "THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER"
And when, and where, do you think we find the children next? No longer
in the winter-time, but in the merry month of May. No longer in
Tauglewood play-room, or at Tanglewood fireside, but more than half-way
up a monstrous hill, or a mountain, as perhaps it would be better
pleased to have us call it. They had set out from home with the mighty
purpose of climbing this high hill, even to the very tiptop of its bald
head. To be sure, it was not quite so high as Chimborazo, or Mont
Blanc, and was even a good deal lower than old Graylock. But, at any
rate, it was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks, or a million of mole
hills; and, when measured by the short strides of little children, might
be reckoned a very respectable mountain.
And was Cousin Eustace with the party? Of that you may be certain; else
how could the book go on a step further? He was now in the middle of
the spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw him four or five
months ago, except that, if you gazed quite closely at his upper lip,
you could discern the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it.
Setting aside this mark of mature manhood, you might have considered
Cousin Eustace just as much a boy as when you first became acquainted
with him. He was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light of
foot and of spirits, and equally a favorite with the little folks, as he
had always been. This expedition up the mountain was entirely of his
contrivance. All the way up the steep ascent, he had encouraged the
elder children with his cheerful voice; and when Dandelion, Cowslip, and
Squash-blossom grew weary, he had lugged them along, alternately, on his
back. In this manner, they had passed through the orchards and pastures
on the lower part of the hill, and had reached the wood, which extends
thence towards its bare summit.
The month of May, thus far, had been more amiable than it often is, and
this was as sweet and genial a day as the heart of man or child could
wish. In their progress up the hill, the small people had found enough
of violets, blue and white, and some that were as golden as if they had
the touch of Midas on them. That sociablest of flowers, the little
Housatonia, was very abundant. It is a flower that never lives alone,
but which loves its own kind, and is always fond of dwelling with a
great many friends and relatives around it. Sometimes you see a family
of them, covering a space no bigger than the palm of your hand; and
sometimes a large community, whitening a whole tract of pasture, and all
keeping one another in cheerful heart and life.
Within the verge of the wood there were columbines, looking more pale
than red, because they were so modest, and had thought proper to seclude
themselves too anxiously from the sun. There were wild geraniums, too,
and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry. The trailing arbutus
was not yet quite out of bloom; but it hid its precious flowers under
the last year's withered forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird
hides its little young ones. It knew, I suppose, how beautiful and
sweet-scented they were. So cunning was their concealment, that the
children sometimes smelt the delicate richness of their perfume, before
they knew whence it proceeded.
Amid so much new life, it was strange and truly pitiful to behold, here
and there, in the fields and pastures, the hoary periwig of dandelions
that had already gone to seed. They had done with summer before the
summer came. Within those small globes of winged seeds it was autumn
now!
Well, but we must not waste our valuable pages with any more talk about
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 cahn 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 hum 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-ball; 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. Philemen
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 Philemen 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 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 hopt, 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 doorsteps! 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 hands 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 did n'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.
