“Yes, I have one son.”
“And how do you call him?”
“I call him Buttercup.”
“Is he at home?”
“No; his father takes him out with him when he goes hunting.”
The old witch looked greatly disappointed. “I am sorry Buttercup is not at home, for I have a sweet little knife—a beautiful silver knife, and it is so sharp that it will cut through anything. If he were only here I would give it to him.”
When Buttercup in the dough trough heard this he opened the lid and looked out. “Peep! peep! here I am!” he cried.
“That is a lucky thing,” said she, and she looked well satisfied. “But the knife is at the bottom of my bag and I am so old and stiff that you will have to crawl in yourself and get it.”
Buttercup was willing, so into the bag he crawled. Then the old witch closed it and flung it over her shoulder, and away she went so fast that the good mother could neither stop her nor follow her.
The old witch went on and on through the forest, but after a while she began to feel very tired.