The comrades of Ulysses, however, had not quite lost the remembrance of having formerly stood erect.  When he approached the sty, two and twenty enormous swine separated themselves from the herd, and scampered towards him, with such a chorus of horrible squealing as made him clap both hands to his ears.  And yet they did not seem to know what they wanted, nor whether they were merely hungry or miserable from some other cause.  It was curious, in the midst of their distress, to observe them thrusting their noses into the mire, in quest of something to eat.  The nymph with the bodice of oaken bark (she was the hamadryad of an oak) threw a handful of acorns among them; and the two and twenty hogs scrambled and fought for the prize, as if they had tasted not so much as a noggin of sour milk for a twelvemonth.

“These must certainly be my comrades,” said Ulysses.  “I recognize their dispositions.  They are hardly worth the trouble of changing them into the human form again.  Nevertheless, we will have it done, lest their bad example should corrupt the other hogs.  Let them take their original shapes, therefore, Dame Circe, if your skill is equal to the task.  It will require greater magic, I trow, than it did to make swine of them.”

So Circe waved her wand again, and repeated a few magic words, at the sound of which the two and twenty hogs pricked up their pendulous ears.  It was a wonder to behold how their snouts grew shorter and shorter, and their mouths (which they seemed to be sorry for, because they could not gobble so expeditiously) smaller and smaller, and how one and another began to stand upon his hind legs, and scratch his nose with his fore trotters.  At first the spectators hardly knew whether to call them hogs or men, but by and by came to the conclusion that they rather resembled the latter.  Finally, there stood the twenty-two comrades of Ulysses, looking pretty much the same as when they left the vessel.

You must not imagine, however, that the swinish quality had entirely gone out of them.  When once it fastens itself into a person’s character, it is very difficult getting rid of it.  This was proved by the hamadryad, who, being exceedingly fond of mischief, threw another handful of acorns before the twenty-two newly restored people; whereupon down they wallowed, in a moment, and gobbled them up in a very shameful way.  Then, recollecting themselves, they scrambled to their feet, and looked more than commonly foolish.

“Thanks, noble Ulysses!” they cried.  “From brute beasts you have restored us to the condition of men again.”

“Do not put yourselves to the trouble of thanking me,” said the wise king.  “I fear I have done but little for you.”

To say the truth, there was a suspicious kind of a grunt in their voices, and for a long time afterwards they spoke gruffly, and were apt to set up a squeal.

“It must depend on your own future behavior,” added Ulysses, “whether you do not find your way back to the sty.”