They begged from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win;

But not a soul would take them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village passed, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry, "What art!" Then softly turned aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue.

"Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours :
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drowned
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft,

Aloft rose every beam and rafter,
The heavy wall climbed slowly after;
The chimney widened and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist;
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered.

The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change a pulpit grew.

The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired the host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused awhile,
Returned them thanks in homely style:
"I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please."

Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife. When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing on old stories past,

They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out,

"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!" "But yes! Methinks, I feel it true; And really yours is budding too Nay,– -now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root!" Description would but tire my muse; In short, they both were turned to yews.

A RUSHLIGHT that had grown fat and saucy with too much grease boasted one evening before a large com pany that it shone brighter than the sun, the moon, and all the stars. At that moment a puff of wind came and blew it out. One who lighted it again said "Shine on, friend Rushlight, and hold your tongue; the lights of heaven are never blown out."