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