As he carried it along, he thought how the professor had told him of shining nectar that Hebe used to bear in the golden cup to Jupiter and all the gods of Olympus.
“That was in the olden time,” he said, “but no nectar could be more beautiful and pure than the water the loving God in heaven gives to us all.”
Offering it to the old woman, his open rosy face beaming with smiles, he said “it is nectar fit for the gods, and I am your cup-bearer.”
Then he bowed so prettily that the mother laughed, saying, “did one ever see such a child? oh! you mischief,” and she shook her fingers in the cunning old way that all mothers do.
The old woman took the glass, but managed to spill half its contents over the child’s clean clothes, then she chuckled with delight at his discomfiture, saying “see what it is to be old, my little cup-bearer.”
While the mother wiped off the water with her handkerchief the woman began picking over the vegetables and fruit with her thin hooked fingers, and smelling every bouquet of flowers, till little Paul’s eyes grew dark and flashed like living flames.
“Just see her, mother,” he whispered, “who will buy them after she has handled every thing with her dirty hands, and snuffed all the sweetness and beauty out of the flowers with her ugly, crooked nose?”
“Oh, you little viper,” cried the old woman, springing forward, “I’ll teach you to mock at old age.”
Paul was too quick for her, and had it not been for the mother she would have fallen, in her eagerness to catch him.
“Never mind the child, my good woman,” said dame Waltenburger, gently, “we were all children once, now how can I serve you?”