With that he pushed into the kitchen, and there was neither sight nor sign of a hare to be found, but an old woman lay in a corner and she bleeding.
The tongue hound gave the mournfullest whine and he juked to his master’s feet, it was easy knowing the beast was in odious dread. The farmer gave a sort of a groan and he turned for to go away home.
“It’s a queer old diversion I’m after enjoying,” says he. “Surely there’s not a many in the world do be hunting hares through the fields and catching old women are bleeding to death.”
When he came to his own place the wife ran out of the house.
“Will you look at the gallons of beautiful milk the cows are after giving this day,” says she, pulling him in on the door.
Sure enough from that out there was a great plenty of milk and a right yield of butter on the churn.