“Let me see,” cried the daughter, and she untied the mouth of the sack and looked in. “A boy!” she cried. “This is no boy, but only an old stump of a fir tree.”
“Stupid you are, and stupid you will be,” cried the witch. “I tell you it is a boy and a good fat boy at that.”
“I tell you it is not,” said the girl.
“I tell you it is.” The old witch took up the sack and looked into it, and there, sure enough, was only an old stump that she had broken her back carrying home. Then she was in a fine rage. “How he got away I don’t know, but never mind! I’ll have him yet whether or no.”
So the next morning while the good woman on the other side of the forest was making her beds she heard Sharptooth begin to bark.
“Run, Buttercup, and see who is coming,” she called.
“Mother, it is the same old woman who was here yesterday.”
“Quick! Jump into the clock case, and do not dare to so much as stir a finger until she has gone.”
Buttercup ran and hid himself in the clock case, and presently there was a knock at the door and the old witch looked into the room.
“Good morning, daughter.”