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“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.