ood spirits; nor, indeed, would you
have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary with a
long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the
end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his
head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer
evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps
because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too, that he
had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as
the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell
in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly, seemed queer. The
traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his
feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be
kept down by an effort.

"I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveler.
"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 skillfully 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 marvelous,
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 hopped,
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