One day the cobbler’s wife was at the market as usual, and her little boy was with her, when a strange old woman entered the stalls.
The woman hardly seemed human. She had red eyes, a wizened, pinched-up face, and her nose was sharp and hooked, and almost reached to her chin. Her dress was made up of rags and tatters. Never before had there entered the market such a repulsive-looking person.
“Are you Hannah the herb-woman?” she asked, bobbing her head to and fro. “Eh?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see, let me see; you may have some herbs I want.”
She thrust her skinny hands into the herbs, took them up and smelled of them, crushing them as she did so.
Having mauled them to her heart’s content, she shook her head, saying,—
“Bad stuff; rubbish; nothing I want; rubbish, rubbish,—eh?”
“You are an impudent old hag,” said the cobbler’s boy, Jamie; “you have crushed our herbs, held them under your ugly nose, and now condemn them.”
“Aha, my son, you do not like my nose,—eh? You shall have one, too, to pay for this,—eh?”