‘The witch is out of sight!’ cried Monday, as the old hag and the little grey-bird disappeared round a corner.
‘So she is!’ said Friday.
And they all whipped up their tired little steeds, and away they sped down the steep hill in pursuit of the witch; but they did not overtake her until she got to the well, when they stood watching to see what would happen.
The old hag slid off her broom, and, looking cunningly about her, as if in search of the thrush, which was on top of the wall above the well, she made a quick step to the well, and put her foot on its ledge.
‘Sing, sing, dear Thrush Betty!’ cried the small white dog in great distress, or the witch will disappear into the well before you can command her to do what you said.’
And Betty, the little grey-bird, flew into a tree, and began to sing with all its might once more. And as it sang, the old hag crept back from the well, and stood in the middle of the road, with a terrible look on her face.
Now, being a witch, and one of the worst of her kind, she could not endure anything so pure and sweet as the small bird’s song; every note it sang was an agony to listen to, and, knowing in her wicked soul that its music had crushed all her evil power, she begged permission in a humble voice to be allowed to go into the well.
‘You may go,’ sang little Thrush Betty; ‘with one condition, which is that you turn Pincher back into a boy!’
‘Please ask me something less hard!’ pleaded the witch, cringing before the little bird. ‘Pincher will be mine no longer if I do that, and I cannot do without my faithful little dog. Where I go, he must also go.’
‘That he shall not!’ sang the thrush. ‘I command you, by the merit of my wings and the power of my song, to remove your spell from this poor little boy!’