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.