“Heaven save us! Here comes the old hag again with her head under her
arm, and a sack at her back.”
“Jump under the kneading-trough and hide,” said his mother.
“Good day!” said the hag, as she came in at the door; “is your Buttercup
at home to-day?”
“You’re very kind to ask after him,” said his mother; “but he’s out in
the wood with his father shooting ptarmigan.”
“What a bore now,” said the old hag; “here have I got such a beautiful
little silver fork for him.”
“Pip, pip! here I am,” said Buttercup, as he came out from under the
kneading-trough.
“I’m so stiff in the back,” said the hag, “you must creep into the sack
and fetch it out for yourself.”
But when Buttercup was well inside the sack, the old hag swung it across
her shoulders, and set off as fast as she could. This time she did not
turn aside to sleep by the way, but went straight home with Buttercup in
the sack, and when she reached her house it was Sunday.