THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER. 177

silver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his
eyes, ‘‘ where is this same village that you talk about ?
On which side of us does it ie? Methinks I do not see
it hereabouts.”’ |

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where,
at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the mead-
ows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, the
wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it,
and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosper-
ity. But what was their astonishment! There was no
longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile
vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have
existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue sur-
face of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley,
from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding ills in
its bosom, with as tranquil an image as if it had been
‘there ever since the creation of the world. For an in-
stant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then, a little
breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter,
and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a
pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore.

The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old
couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could
only have been dreaming about a village having lain
there. But, the next moment, they remembered the
vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the
inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. The village
had been there yesterday, and now was gone!

“Alas!” cried these kind-hearted old people, “ what
has become of our poor neighbors ?”

8 * L