“Pass on—non fate per me” (you won’t do).
There came a baker. He was not wanted. But the next was a digger of ditches and of graves—a fossaruolo—and the wizard cried:
“Bravo! You’re my man! Come with me; I want you to dig a pit in my garden.”
So the poor man went, for he was as much frightened at the terrible face and stature of the wizard as he was in hope of being paid. And being directed, he dug a hole nearly as deep as the magician was tall.
“Now,” said the master, “get some light sticks and cover over the pit while I stand in it, and then strew some twigs and leaves over it, with a few leaves to hide the top of my head.”
It was done, and there he stood covered. The ditcher, or sexton, hurried away, glad that he had dug this strange grave for another, and not for himself.
Evening came, and the gossip looked out.
“Good! There is not even a dog on guard. Come, let us hurry! This time we will take all that remains of the broccoli.”
Said and done. And when they had gathered the last plant, the gossip cried:
“See what beautiful mushrooms! Let us pick them.”