XV.

“‘Chickamy, Chickamy Crany Crow,Went to the well to wash her toe,And when she came back her chicken was gone.’

That’s the rhyme we say in the game, but we never heard the story.”

“I can’t tell it to so many,” said Chickamy Crany Crow.

“Well, tell it to me, then,” replied Mrs. Meadows coaxingly. “The rest won’t listen any more than they can help.”

“Well,” said Chickamy Crany Crow, “one time there was an old woman that lived near a well. For a long time nobody thought she was a witch, but after a while people began to have their suspicions. There was a quagmire in the road right in front of the old woman’s house, and every traveler passing that way was sure to get mud on his feet. No matter whether he was riding horseback or in a buggy, it was all the same. He was sure to get his feet muddy. And the mud was so black, and thick, and heavy, that he was anxious to get it off as soon as possible.

“It happened, too, that every time a traveler crossed the quagmire, after getting the black, heavy mud on his feet, the old woman would be sitting in her door smoking a cob pipe.

“‘Howdy, dearie!’ she would say. ‘Why,you’re full of nasty mud! Go to the well yonder, dearie, and wash it off.’

“The traveler would leave his buggy and horse, or his horse and saddle, or his bundle at the old witch’s door, and go to the well to wash his feet. When he came back everything would be gone,—witch, horse, buggy, saddle, or bundle. The quagmire would be dried up, and the road itself would seem to be a different road. Sometimes it would be days and days before the traveler could find his way to the place where he started.

“One day a traveler came along the road in a fine carriage. With him he had a beautiful little girl with long golden hair. She had eyes as blue and as clear as the water in the spring when the sunshine slants through, and her skin was as white as milk. When the carriage had crossed the quagmire, the traveler found that his feet were covered with the black, heavy mud. He couldn’t imagine how it had happened. There was no hole in the bottom of the carriage, the door was shut tight, and there was no way for the mud to get in. He said to the little girl:—

“‘Daughter, are your feet muddy?’

“‘Not a bit, father.’

“When the carriage crossed the quagmire, there sat the old woman in the door.

“‘Howdy, dearie!’ says she. ‘And how did you get the nasty mud on your feet? Yonder is a well; leave your carriage here and go wash it off.’

“So the traveler kissed his daughter, for he was very fond of her, and went to the well to wash his feet. When he came back, daughter, carriage, and old woman had all disappeared. He wandered around like a crazy man for many days, and at last came to where my mother lived and told his story. This wasn’t the first time she had heard such a tale, and she concluded to see what the matter was. So she called me and gave me a black chicken and told me to go by the old woman’s house and see what happened.

“I took the chicken, which was tied by the legs, and went along the road until I came to the quagmire. I tried to pick my way around it, but the black mud bubbled up and flew at my feet, and finally it became so thick and heavy I could scarcely walk. When I got across, there sat the old woman smoking her cob pipe and grinning.

“‘Howdy, dearie!’ says she.

“‘Howdy, granny!’ says I.

“‘Leave your fat chicken here,’ says she, ‘and go to yonder well and wash your toe.’

“‘Thanky, granny; that I will,’ says I.

“So I went to the well, but when I came back my chicken was gone. And so was the old woman, and the quagmire. But I didn’t get frightened. I went back to the well and began to sing,—

“‘Chickamy, Chickamy Crany Crow,I went to the well to wash my toe,But when I came back my chicken was gone—What o’clock, old witch?’

“I hadn’t been there long before the mud began to bubble up again, and out of it came the old witch. And then what seemed to be a thick mist cleared away, and there was the old witch’s house, and inside I could see the beautiful little girl crying for her father. I intended to run home and tell what I had seen, but before I could move out of my tracks I heard the old woman coming to the well. In coming up out of the quagmire she had got mud on her feet. She had pulled off her shoes for comfort, and had been going about in her stocking-feet, and of course whenshe disappeared in the quagmire, and came up through it again, her stockings were full of mud; and so she came to the well to wash them.

“I didn’t know whether to run or stay, but I stayed, and as soon as the old woman got in sight, I sat on the ground and began to rock my body backwards and forwards, crying,—

“‘Oh, mercy me! Oh, what shall I do?I can’t get the black mud off of my shoe!’

“The old woman seemed to be very angry when she first saw me, but I pretended to pay no attention to her. I just rocked backwards and forwards, and cried that I couldn’t get the black mud off of my shoe. The old woman sat down and pulled off her stockings, and began to wash them. When she had finished one, she threw it behind her on the grass to dry. Being wet and heavy it fell farther from her hand than she intended. It fell close to me, and I picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket.”

“What for?” asked Buster John bluntly.

“Well, I hardly know,” replied Chickamy Crany Crow, somewhat embarrassed at the suddenness of the question. “I wanted to get evenwith her for stealing my fat chicken. I hardly knew what I was doing, and I certainly didn’t know how it would turn out. Well, I stuffed the old woman’s wet stocking in my pocket, and kept on crying out that I didn’t know how to get the black mud off of my shoe.

“‘Do as I do,’ said the old woman. Then I went and sat on the grass in front of her, and washed the mud from my shoe.

“For the first time I saw what a horrible-looking creature the old woman was. Her eyes were sunk in her head, her nose was hooked over her mouth, and she had two long upper teeth that hung lower than her under lip. I says to myself, ‘Well, old lady, if you are not a witch, there never was one.’ She washed her stocking, mumbling and chewing, and when she had finished she threw it behind her, and sat hugging her knees, and glaring at me in a way that made my flesh crawl.

“‘What is your name?’ says she.

“‘Chickamy Crany Crow,’ says I.

“‘What are you doing here?’ says she.

“Says I, ‘I went to the well to wash my toe, but when I came back my chicken was gone.’

“Then the old woman began to laugh like a cackling hen, and she laughed so loud and laughed so long that it scared me. I got up and pretended to be going home, but when I had gone a little way I hid behind a big tree, and watched the old woman’s antics. She kept on laughing for some time, and then she reached out for her stockings. She found the only one she had left, and put it on. Then she reached around for the other, but failed to find it, because I had it in my pocket. This seemed to puzzle her. She stood up and looked all around for her missing stocking, but it wasn’t there. Then she sat down again, pulled off the stocking she had on, and put it on the other foot.

“But she still lacked a stocking. This seemed to puzzle the old witch worse than ever. Once more she pulled off the stocking and put it on the other foot, and appeared to be very much astonished because one foot was still bare.”

“She couldn’t ’a’ had much sense!” exclaimed Drusilla.

“Not about stockings and things like that,” said Chickamy Crany Crow. “Well, she sat there, pulling the stocking from one foot andputting it on the other, until she seemed to forget about everything else. I watched her until I got tired, and then I thought I would take her missing stocking and throw it in the quagmire.

“The moment I did this, the quagmire began to bubble, and hiss, and roll, and toss and tumble about, and soon it disappeared altogether. A little fog arose when the quagmire sank out of sight, and when this cleared away, there stood the carriage that had brought the beautiful little girl with the golden hair, and the little girl herself was sitting in it, ready to go to her father. But this wasn’t all. All around, there were numbers of horses and buggies, and all sorts of bundles and money-purses, and everything that travelers carry along with them.

“Well, I got in the carriage with the beautiful little girl, clucked to the horses, and drove to my mother’s house. All the horses with saddles, and all the horses hitched to buggies, followed along after us, and there was great rejoicing among the people as we went by.”

“What became of the old witch?” asked Buster John.

“She stayed there, trying to make one stockingdo for two feet, until the well dried up, and after that I don’t know what became of her.”

“You ought to have been a young man,” said Sweetest Susan, who had been reading fairy stories, “so that you could have married the beautiful girl with golden hair, after rescuing her. Besides, your name would have been in the books.”

“Oh,” answered Chickamy Crany Crow, smiling for the first time, “there are plenty of names in the books that you never hear of; but now, wherever little children get together to play games, you will hear them saying the rhyme that tells a part of my story,—

“‘Chickamy, Chickamy Crany Crow,Went to the well to wash her toe,But when she got back her chicken was gone.’”

THE GOLDEN-HAIRED, BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL

“There used to be a great many more witches than there are now,” remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. “I reckon it’s because folks have more business of their own to attend to; or, it may be a change in the climate. I hear old people say that the winters are colder now than they used to be, and the summers hotter. Maybe that has something to do with it. Anyhow, something has happened to thin the witches out.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Rabbit; “I’ve noticed that they are scarcer than they used to be, but I never inquired into the whys and wherefores. They never bothered me, and I never bothered them.”

“Well, when I first came here,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “I noticed Jimmy Jay-Bird bringing sand and mortar every Friday, and it occurred to me that he was preparing to lay the foundations of a witch’s house in this country. So I says to myself, says I, ‘I’ll keep an eye on Jimmy, and seewhere he gets in and out; for, surely, he doesn’t come by way of the spring.’ But Jimmy Jay-Bird was pretty slick, and it was some time before I found out where he came down and went out. By some means or other, he had discovered the big hollow poplar on the spring branch, and he was coming and going that way.”

“I know where it is,” said Buster John.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “It is the oldest and the biggest tree in the whole country next door. But as soon as I found that Jimmy Jay-Bird was using it as a passageway, I drove a peg in the hole and put an end to his schemes, whatever they may have been. I don’t know where he carries his sand and mortar now, and I don’t care.

“But I didn’t start out to tell anything about Jimmy Jay-Bird,” continued Mr. Thimblefinger, after pausing a moment. “I was thinking about the way a witch was caught by a boy no bigger and not much older than our young friend here.”

“Tell us about it, please!” cried Buster John enthusiastically.

“Well,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, “it’s not much of a story. You can’t take a handful offacts and make a story of them unless you know how to fling them together. The best I can do is to tell it just as it happened as near as I can remember.

“When I was a little bit of a fellow—now don’t laugh!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger, seeing Mr. Rabbit wink at Mrs. Meadows,—“I mean when I was in my teens. Well, when I was younger than I am now, an old witch lived not far from our house. Her eyes were red around the rims, and her eyeballs looked as if they had been boiled. Everybody called her Peggy Pig-Eye, and she answered to that name about as well as she did to any other. Near her house there lived a man who had a wife and a son. He was a tolerably well-to-do man, and all the neighbors thought very well of him. But he used to go to town every sale-day, and at night he would come home feeling very gay. I don’t know what there was in town to make him feel so gay, but I know that he used to come by our house singing at the top of his voice and cutting up all sorts of shines.

“Well, one night when he was going back home whooping and yelling, he saw something dark in the road before him, and he rode hishorse at it full tilt. The horse seemed to have little taste for such sport, for he snorted and wanted to shy around the dark object. But the man clapped spurs to the horse and drove him right at it. The black thing ran, and the man spurred his horse after it. It ran down the road, then across an old field and back into the road again, the man pursuing it as hard as he could make his horse go. Finally it ran into Peggy Pig-Eye’s yard and under her house, and the man went clattering after it. Just as he pulled his horse up (to keep the animal from running broadside into the house) the door opened, and Peggy Pig-Eye put her head out.

“‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ she cried. ‘And you are after me, are you? Very well!’ With that she clapped the door to, and the man rode on home, not feeling as lively as he had felt.

“Now, it happened that this man was a great hunter. He had a pack of fine dogs, and he was very fond of them. He hunted deer with them by day, and raccoons and ’possums by night. The first time he went hunting after riding into Peggy Pig-Eye’s yard was at night. He didn’t go very far from his house before his dogs strucka warm trail and went scurrying towards the big swamp at a great rate. A negro, who went along to carry the light and cut the tree down, shook his head and declared the dogs were not barking to suit him. He said there was more whine than growl to the noise they were making.

“Anyhow, the dogs went scurrying to the big swamp, and the man and the negro followed as fast as they could. The dogs treed right at the edge of the swamp, and when the man and the negro got there, they were barking up a big poplar. The negro held his torch behind him so as to ‘shine’ in the raccoon’s eyes,—if it was a raccoon,—but he could see nothing.

“‘Cut the tree down,’ said the man.

“The negro shook his head, but he whacked away at the poplar with his axe, and cut it so that it would fall away from the swamp. The tree fell with a tremendous crash, and the dogs rushed into the top limbs, followed by the man and the negro. But before they could wink their eyes, something tall and white walked out, and cried:—

“‘You are always after me!’

“The negro threw down the torch and the axe,and ran home as fast as he could. The dogs tried hard to catch the white thing, whatever it was, but as soon as they got near enough to bite it, they tucked their tails between their legs and ran howling back to their master.

“This happened every time the man went out to hunt raccoons and ’possums. The dogs would strike a warm trail not far from the house, run to the edge of the swamp, and bay up a tree, and then when the tree was cut down, something tall and white would walk from the top limbs, and cry out:

“‘You are always after me!’

“The man thought it was very queer, but he wasn’t frightened. He said to himself that if he couldn’t catch raccoons and ’possums, maybe he could catch a fox. So he called up his dogs one morning just about day, mounted his horse, and started out to catch a fox. Before they had gone a hundred yards from the house, the dogs found a warm trail and began to follow it in lively style. The man spurred his horse after them and harked them on. They ran around in a wide circle, and presently something white flitted by the man, with the dogs after it in full cry. As it went by it screamed out:—

“‘You are always after me!’

“Then it disappeared, and after a while the dogs came back, panting as hard as if they had run forty miles. The man went back home and sat by the fire and studied about it, and the more he studied the worse he was troubled. He sat so long without saying anything that his little boy asked him what the matter was, but the man shook his head, and said there were some things that children ought not to know. The boy was fourteen years old, and very small for his age, but he had plenty of sense, and was very brave. He told his mother that his father was in some deep trouble, and begged her to find out what it was, and tell him about it.

“So the little boy’s mother set herself to work to find out what was troubling her husband. She pressed him so hard with questions that he finally told her about his strange adventures while out hunting. The wife was so frightened that she begged her husband not to go hunting any more, but to give up his dogs and attend to business that was not so dangerous.

“The man promised that he would hunt no more raccoons or ’possums or foxes, but he saidhe needed his dogs to hunt deer. The woman told her son all that her husband had said to her, and after that the little boy made it a habit to go off in the woods and sit at the foot of a big chestnut-tree, and wonder what it was that ran before his father’s dogs.

“Matters went on this way until finally one day the man said he would go out and catch a deer. He called his dogs, especially Old Top, the oldest one of all. Top was a big hound, and hunted nothing else but deer, and he was never known to fail to run down and catch the deer he got after. Old Top went along when he was called, but it was very plain to the little boy, who was watching, that he didn’t go willingly. Anyhow, Old Top went, though he looked back at the little boy and wagged his tail knowingly more than once.

“Before the hunter got out of hearing, the dogs struck a trail and pursued it in the direction of the big woods beyond the creek. For a long time the little boy listened to the dogs running. Sometimes they seemed to come nearer, and then they would go farther, and finally the sound of their trailing died away altogether.

“After waiting and listening for some time,the little boy went into the woods and sat at the foot of the chestnut-tree. While he was sitting there thinking, and watching the big black ants chase each other up and down the tree, he heard the bushes shake, and suddenly a little old man appeared before him.

“‘Heyday!’ said the little old man. ‘You are too young to be thinking. Leave thoughts for old people; you should be at play.’

“‘But sometimes,’ replied the little boy, ‘children have to think, too. It doesn’t make my head ache to think.’

“‘I see, I see!’ exclaimed the little old man; ‘your name is Three Wits. Three Wits, how are you? I hope you are well. You ought to have come here a little sooner. There is a famous hunt going on in these woods. It passed here awhile ago—a fool on a frightened horse and seven crazy dogs galloping after Satan’s sister. Oh, it is jolly! Stay where you are, Three Wits. This famous hunt will pass this way again directly, and you will have a plain view of it.’

“After a while the little boy heard the dogs coming, and presently he saw the strangest sight his eyes had ever beheld. Going through thewoods as swift as the wind, he saw a great white Stag. On the back of the Stag, and holding to its antlers, was an old woman. She was grinning horribly, and her gray hair was streaming out behind her like a ragged banner. The Stag, bearing the old woman, rushed through the woods and disappeared. Then came the dogs in full cry, and after the dogs came the little boy’s father, spurring his horse and yelling in the excitement of the chase.

“‘What do you think of it, Three Wits?’ asked the little old man, laughing.

“‘I don’t like it,’ replied the boy. ‘That man is my father.’

“‘Your father!’ cried the little old man. ‘Oho! That alters the case. Well, well! Let’s see—let’s see!’

“The little old man took from the wallet he had on his back a thick book with a red cover. Then he sat at the foot of the chestnut-tree and turned the well-thumbed leaves until he found the place he was hunting for. He closed the book, but kept his forefinger between the leaves, and took the little boy’s hand in his.”

THE LITTLE OLD MAN, THREE WITS, AND THE STAG

“The little old man took the boy’s hand in his, but before he could say anything, a rustling was heard in the bushes. Presently, Old Top, the deerhound, made his appearance. He went up to the boy, smelt of him, wagged his tail as a sign of satisfaction, and then curled up in the leaves as if to take a nap. But he didn’t go to sleep. Every once in awhile, Old Top raised his head and listened wistfully to the running dogs that could be heard in the distance.

“‘A very sensible dog!’ exclaimed the little old man. ‘He knows something is wrong.’

“‘What is it?’ asked the boy.

“‘Well, Three Wits,’ said the little old man, ‘I’ll tell you. The man, the horse, and the dogs, are under a spell. They are bewitched, and they will continue to be bewitched until doomsday, unless the spell is broken. They will go round and round on the trail until they exhaustthemselves, and then they will gradually grow thinner and thinner until they disappear; and then nothing will be heard but the barking of the dogs, and the sound of that will grow fainter and fainter, until no human ear can hear it. Now, the question is, Three Wits, do you wish the spell broken?’

“‘I do,’ replied the boy, ‘for my mother’s sake.’

“‘Now that is well spoken,’ said the old man, rising and laying his hand gently on the boy’s head. ‘For, behold, Three Wits, what is written in the book.’

“The old man opened the red volume and read as follows, pointing to each word with his finger:—

“‘Whoever shall, for the sake of his mother, earnestly desire to break the spells worked by Paggia Paggiola, the Hunting-Witch, is in a way to have his desire fulfilled. For this is the indispensable condition. Moreover, he who hopes to succeed must have the innocence of youth and the courage of manhood. On his left arm there should grow a mole, and in this mole are three white hairs.’

“‘I have the mole,’ said the boy, opening his vest.

“Sure enough, there was the mole, and on the mole were growing three long white hairs as fine as silk. With a pair of silver tweezers that he found in his wallet, the little old man pulled the long white hairs from the mole. One by one he pulled them. One by one he ran them through his fingers, and one by one they seemed to grow longer and stronger, each time they were pulled through the little old man’s swift-moving fingers.

“Then, searching in his wallet, he found three ivory bobbins; and on these he wound the long, strong, and silken hairs. He wound and wound, and as he wound he sang:—

“‘Now on this bobbin I wind a hair,White, and silken, and long;I wind it slow, I wind it fair,Glossy, and white, and strong.“‘I wind it here in shade and sun,For one, one, one are three—Three and no more where the stag shall run,Close by the chestnut-tree.“‘And one shall catch, and two shall hold,And three shall clamp and kill;Just say to your hand, Be steady and bold;And say to your heart, I will.’

“‘Now on this bobbin I wind a hair,White, and silken, and long;I wind it slow, I wind it fair,Glossy, and white, and strong.

“‘I wind it here in shade and sun,For one, one, one are three—Three and no more where the stag shall run,Close by the chestnut-tree.

“‘And one shall catch, and two shall hold,And three shall clamp and kill;Just say to your hand, Be steady and bold;And say to your heart, I will.’

“The boy was surprised to see, as the old man sang and wound, that the white hairs spun out into silver wires hundreds of feet long, and stronger than steel.

“‘Take these, Three Wits,’ said the old man, after he had finished winding the bobbins. ‘Take these, and when the hunt runs this way again, fling one at the Stag, and one at the dogs, and one at the horse the huntsman rides. You must fling them quickly, one after the other. It is easy enough to miss the Stag, but you must not fail to catch the dogs. You may fail on the Stag and horse, but you must not fail on the dogs. Be strong. Brace yourself for three quick and hard throws.’

“Then they stood there listening; and presently Old Top, the deerhound, raised his head and whistled through his nose, the whistle ending in a whine.

“‘They are coming now, Three Wits!’ exclaimed the little old man. ‘Get ready! Throw quick and hard! Don’t be afraid!’

“In the distance, the baying of the dogs couldbe heard, and Old Top rose and shook himself and growled. In another moment the Stag, ridden by the grinning old woman, flitted past; but, quick as a flash, Three Wits threw the first bobbin, and he threw it so hard that it made a zooning sound in the air. The Stag made one tremendous bound and disappeared. The dogs came next, and Three Wits threw the second bobbin. It zooned through the air, and the silver wire unwound with a twanging sound, and fell full upon the panting and baying pack. It fell upon them, and wound itself about them, and smothered their cries, and held them fast in its glistening meshes.

“Then came the rushing horse and its furious rider. Three Wits threw the third bobbin, but the horse shied at the motion of the boy’s hand, and flew through the woods in the direction taken by the Stag. When Three Wits saw both the Stag and the horse escape, he fell upon the ground and began to weep.

“‘Hity-tity!’ exclaimed the little old man, coming from behind the tree where he had concealed himself. ‘What’s this? Why, I was about to cry “Bravo!” and here I find youpretending to be a baby. Get up. If I am not mistaken you have accomplished even more than I expected you would. Let’s see.’

“He lifted Three Wits to his feet, and then the two went to where the hunt had passed. At one point the dogs were entangled in the silver wire, and were unable to free themselves. A little farther in, they found a thick wisp of gray hair which the wire had cut from the head of the grinning old woman who rode the Stag. The little old man clapped his hands with delight and cut some joyful capers, for he was very nimble.

“‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another half inch and you would have cut off her head instead of her hair! But where is the bobbin? I don’t see the bobbin! We must have the bobbin!’

“Three Wits hunted, but he could find no bobbin. Then he caught hold of the wire, and found that it led into the woods the way the Stag had gone. He caught hold of it and followed it along, calling to the little old man. They followed the silver wire far into the woods, and finally they came to the end of it, and there was the Stag, strangled and dead. The weight of the bobbin had carried the wire around his bodyand around his neck, and the bobbin itself had caught in the fork of one of his antlers.

THE STAG AND THE WITCH

“The little old man seemed to be very happy. He patted Three Wits on the shoulder, and declared that he was a good boy, a fine boy. ‘But there is more to be done,’ said the little old man,—‘a great deal more. And you will have to go alone. I can help you, but I can’t be with you.’

“Then he found the ivory bobbins, rewound the silver wire, which seemed to spin out still longer, and gave them to Three Wits. ‘Take these,’ he said, ‘and go to the witch’s house.’

“‘Do you mean Peggy Pig-Eye’s house?’ asked Three Wits.

“‘Why, of course.’ replied the little old man. ‘Her right name, as you saw by the book, is Paggia Paggiola, but people call her Peggy Pig-Eye for short. Go to her house, throw one of the bobbins over the roof, and then throw one around each end. Throw quick and hard, and, as you throw, cry out,—

“‘Bibbity bobbity bobbin,Go hibbity hob hobnobbin.’

“‘But wait!’ cried the little old man. ‘Youmay need these dogs.’ He took a wisp of the witch’s hair, and whipped them back to life. And maybe you’ll need a horse to ride. So he went into the woods where the Stag lay dead, and whipped him to his feet with the witch’s hair.

“‘This is your horse,’ he said to Three Wits. But the boy was afraid to mount the Stag. ‘Be bold!’ cried the little old man; ‘all depends on that! Give me your foot. There you are! Loop the silver wire over his horns, and touch him with the bobbin the way you want him to go. He’ll carry you safely. Good-by! Be bold!’

“Following the little old man’s directions, Three Wits was soon cantering down the road on the Stag’s back. The dogs seemed to take everything for granted, and followed along after the Stag as readily as if he had been their master’s horse. But travelers who chanced to be going along the road went into the wood when they saw a boy riding a big Stag. They were not used to such a queer sight.

“The spirits of Three Wits rose as he went along. Everything had turned out so happily, and the Stag moved along so gracefully and easily that Three Wits felt quite like a hero.

“He went ambling along the road, the people staring at him, until he came to the witch’s house. Everything was quiet there. The windows and doors were closed, and the only sign of life about the place was a big black cat that sat on the water-shelf. Three Wits rode the Stag around the house three times. Then over the roof he threw a bobbin. To the right he threw another, and to the left another. The silver wire seemed to whirl until it became a tangle of wire all over the house. The big black cat made an attempt to escape, but it was caught in the wire as a fly is caught in a spider’s web, and it hung helpless by the water-shelf.

“And then a very wonderful thing happened. The silver wire seemed to become so heavy that the roof of the house couldn’t bear its weight. The cabin swayed, and finally the roof fell in with a crash. Out of the dust and wreck walked the father of Three Wits, leading his horse, and, following him, came a dozen or more elegantly dressed gentlemen whom Three Wits had never seen before. They shook hands with the boy and thanked him for coming to their rescue, and each gave him a large sum of gold, so that when theystarted on their way home, Three Wits found that he was very rich. As for the father, he seized Three Wits in his arms and embraced him again and again, and declared that even a king might be proud to have such a brave son.

“While they were talking, the little old man came out of the wood. He went straight to Three Wits, placed his hand on the boy’s head, and seemed to be blessing him. Then he lifted Three Wits from the Stag’s back, mounted in his place, waved his hand twice, and, in a twinkling, had disappeared in the wood. That was the end of the witch, and this is the end of the story.”

“Well, I think it is a very good story,” said Buster John.

“I think so, too,” remarked Sweetest Susan; “but I’m sorry there was no little girl in it.”

“The three bobbins,” said Mrs. Meadows, “remind me of a circumstance—”

“Is a circumstance a story?” interrupted Sweetest Susan.

“Oh, you mustn’t mind my country talk,” replied Mrs. Meadows, laughing. “It was a trick of my tongue. I didn’t want to say ‘story’ because you might be disappointed. But I reckon I may as well call it a story. Well, as I was saying, the three bobbins remind me of a story that was partly about a little girl.”

“I know it must be a nice story,” cried Sweetest Susan enthusiastically.

But Mrs. Meadows shook her head. “From all I can hear,” she said, “matters and things in general are a great deal nicer in books than they are outside of books. Folks are folks, anyway you can fix them, I don’t care what the books say. But I’ll not deny that in my day and timeI have seen folks mighty near as nice and as pretty as those you read about in the books, and one of these was the little girl I am going to tell you about.

“Once upon a time, in the country where I then lived,—and I’ve lived in a good many countries, for wherever you find mountains, hills, and rivers, there you’ll find the Meadows family,—there was a little girl who was both beautiful and good. She was not as good nor as beautiful as those you read about in the books, but she was good enough for the people who knew her. For a wonder she didn’t have long golden hair. Her hair was black, and curled about her head in the loveliest way; and her eyes were large and brown, and her skin creamy white, with just the shadow of rose color in her face. Her parents were rich and proud, but they were prouder of their little girl than they were of their money, as well they might be, seeing that she was the smartest and most beautiful child to be found in all the country round.”

“Were there no princes and castles in that country?” inquired Sweetest Susan.

“Oh, dear, no!” replied Mrs. Meadows.“The folks were just plain, common, every-day people. Those that were fortunate enough to be honest and contented were much better off than any princes you ever heard of; and a hut where happiness lives is a much finer place than the finest castle.

“Well, as I was telling you, the parents of this little girl with black curly hair were very proud of her. They watched over her very carefully, and neglected nothing that would make her happy and contented. Some little girls that I have known would have been spoiled by so much kindness and attention, but this little girl with the black curly hair wasn’t spoiled at all. She was as good as she was beautiful.

“One day, when this little girl was walking in the flower garden, she heard the gardener talking to his wife through the iron fence. The woman’s voice was so pleasant and her laugh so cheerful that the little girl ran to the fence and peeped through to see who it was. The gardener’s wife saw her, and at once began to pet her and make much of her. The little girl wanted the woman to come into the garden, and seemed to be so much in earnest about it that the womanpromised she would come and be the child’s nurse some day.

“No sooner had the gardener’s wife gone about her business than the little girl ran and told her mother that she must have a nurse. At first her mother paid little attention to her, thinking that it was the passing whim of a child, but the little girl insisted, until finally her mother said:—

“‘Who shall be your nurse? You know, my dear, that you can’t have everybody and anybody?’

“‘Ask the gardener,’ the little girl replied. ‘He knows.’

“‘And how does he know?’ the mother asked.

“‘I saw him talking with her,’ the little girl replied.

“So, after a time, the gardener was called, and then it was found that his wife was the person the little girl had selected to be her nurse. The father and mother hesitated for some time before they would consent to send for the woman, but finally she came, and they were so much struck by her pleasant manners and cheerful disposition that they were quite willing to employ her.

“For a long time after that the little girl and her nurse were never separated except when the nursewould go home to see her husband and her son, who was a handsome boy about fourteen years old. The little girl used to grieve so when her nurse left her that on one occasion, when the woman was going home for only an hour or so, she carried the child with her. There the little girl saw the handsome son of her nurse, and they were both very much pleased with each other. In the little time she stayed, the boy showed her a hundred new games, and told her a great many stories she had never heard before.”

“How old was the little girl?” Mr. Thimblefinger inquired.

“Between seven and eight,” replied Mrs. Meadows “Just old enough to be cute. Well, in the little time they were together the boy and girl grew to be very fond of each other. The boy thought she was the daintiest and prettiest creature he had ever seen, and the little girl thought the boy was all that a boy should be.

“Of course, when the little girl went back home again she talked of nothing else but the boy who had proved to be such a wonderful playmate. This set the child’s mother to thinking, and she made up her mind that it wouldn’t dofor these children to see so much of each other. So she sent for the nurse and told her very kindly that she didn’t think it would be prudent to carry the little girl to her house any more.

“The nurse agreed with the little girl’s mother, but somehow she didn’t relish the idea that her brave and handsome son wasn’t good enough to play with anybody’s daughter. She thought the matter over for several days, and finally decided that it would be better to give up her place as nurse. She was very fond of the little girl, but she was still fonder of her boy. So she ceased to be the child’s nurse, and went to her own home.

“The little girl grieved day and night for her kind nurse. Nothing would console her. Her mother bought her a little pony, but she wouldn’t ride it; wonderful dolls, but she wouldn’t look at them; the finest cakes and candies, but she wouldn’t eat them; the most beautiful dresses, but she wouldn’t wear them. Matters went on in this way for I don’t know how long, until, finally, one day the little girl’s mother concluded to send for the nurse.

“Now it happened that on that particular day the little girl had made up her mind to go afterher nurse. One day in each week, the gardener would open the big gates of the park in order to trundle away the trash and weeds that he had raked up. The little girl watched him open the gate, and then, when the gardener went for his wheelbarrow, she slipped out at the gate and went running across the fields.

“For a time the little girl was perfectly happy. She gave herself up to the pleasure of being alone, of being able to do as she chose, with no one to tell her not to do this or do that, or to say ‘come here,’ or ‘go yonder.’ So she went running across the fields, looking at the birds, and trying to catch butterflies, and singing to herself some of the beautiful songs that her nurse’s son had taught her.

“Now it happened that when she ran out of the garden gate, in her haste to keep out of sight of the gardener, she went away from her nurse’s house instead of going towards it. She had been kept so closely at home that she had no idea of the great world beyond the garden gate. She thought that all she had to do to get to her dear nurse’s house was to go out at the gate and keep on going until she came to the place where therewere two big trees, with a swing between them, and a little white house on the other side.

“So she went on her way, singing and skipping. When she grew tired she sat down to rest. When she grew thirsty she drank of the clear, cold water that ran through the fields. When she became hungry, she ate the berries that grew along the way. She was perfectly satisfied that she would soon come to her nurse’s house. But the sun doesn’t stop for grown people, much less for children, and the little girl soon found that night was coming on. The only thought she had was that her nurse’s house had been moved farther away, and that by going straight ahead she would find it after a while.

“So she trudged along. When the sun was nearly down she saw an old man sitting in the shade of a tree. The little girl went straight towards him, made him a curtsey, as she had been taught to do, and said:—

“‘Please, sir, where is my nurse’s house?’

“The old man raised his head and glanced all around. ‘I see no nurse’s house,’ he replied.

“Then, after a little while the old man said: ‘My dear, give me a drink of water.’

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