‘And Thursday, Friday, and Little Saturday,’ struck in the Wise Woman.
‘Away, away, little grey thrush!’ cried they all, singing as they cried. ‘The sun is rising behind the Tors, and the time is come for our little thrush to fly and sing. Then, away, away!’
Their little thrush wanted no further urging, and with one full, clear, melodious note, which filled all the small fairies with delight, it flew out of the hut, followed by the gentle winnowing of the Lady Soft Winds’ wings.
So glad was Betty, the little grey thrush, at being on her way to see those dear little maids that she flew faster than ever thrush flew before, and the sun was not yet over the Tors when she reached a grim old house standing all alone on a brown and desolate moor, with its back to the golden sunrise.
Instinct told the little grey thrush that it was the witch’s house, and alighting on a blasted tree, close to its spell-bound door, she began to sing with all her might; and so joyous and so triumphant was her song that it seemed to bring gladness and hope even to that desolate spot.
As Betty, in her bird form, sang on, the old witch came round the corner of her house, dragging her unwilling feet as she came. When she lifted her bad old eyes and saw a grey thrush high on the tree, singing with all its cheerful heart, she turned green, and hearing the door of the tower leading up the stairs—where Monday and all the other little maids were shut up—groaning as if in pain, she sank in a heap on the ground, and began to groan and moan too.
The bird sang on, and its whole body was one shake with its music, and the more thrilling was its song, the more the witch moaned and groaned. Then, when its last triumphant note rang out, the great door opened, as if pushed back by some magic power, and revealed a flight of very steep stairs. The witch gave a piercing howl when she saw the door open wide, for she knew that the small grey thrush’s music had broken her spells, and that she was completely in the power of that little singing bird.
When the door of the tower was as wide open as it could go, the thrush gave three flaps of its wings, and then it flew out of the tree, and in through the doorway of the tower, up and up the witch’s stairs. And at the top of the stairs was a small room, where six little maids sat spinning.
They were so busy, and the hum of the wheels was so loud, that none of them noticed the entrance of the grey-bird until it broke into a song from the window-sill.
‘Why, it is a dear little thrush!’ cried Friday, who was the first to notice it. ‘How ever did it get up here? It must be the bird we heard singing so beautifully outside just now;’ and all the children stopped their spinning-wheels to look at it.