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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.