`` I am old Philemon ! '' murmured the oak . `` I am old Baucis ! '' murmured the linden-tree . But , as the breeze grew stronger , the trees both spoke at once , -- `` Philemon ! Baucis ! Baucis ! Philemon ! '' -- as if one were both and both were one , and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart . It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age , and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so , Philemon as an oak , and Baucis as a linden-tree . And oh , what a hospitable shade did they fling around them ! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it , he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head , and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these : -- `` Welcome , welcome , dear traveller , welcome ! '' And some kind soul , that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old Philemon best , built a circular seat around both their trunks , where , for a great while afterwards , the weary , and the hungry , and the thirsty used to repose themselves , and quaff milk abundantly out of the miraculous pitcher . And I wish , for all our sakes , that we had the pitcher here now ! THE HILLSIDE . AFTER THE STORY . `` How much did the pitcher hold ? '' asked Sweet Fern . `` It did not hold quite a quart , '' answered the student ; `` but you might keep pouring milk out of it , till you should fill a hogshead , if you pleased . The truth is , it would run on forever , and not be dry even at midsummer , -- which is more than can be said of yonder rill , that goes babbling down the hillside . ''
`` And what has become XXXXX the pitcher now ? ''
above around as at for like of than that to