"Which witch?" asked the woman, thoroughly alarmed.
"The Crust Witch, the gobbling Witch! She who rides on a broomstick at the midnight hour, when no one is abroad, over hill and vale, over moor and dale!"
"Oh! Oh! Oh! but what does she gobble?"
"Have you never heard? All day long, she stalks around, with a crinching, crunching, munching sound and lures little children with gingerbread sweet. She lures little children, the poor little things, into her oven, all red-hot; then she shuts the lid down, pop, pop!—until they're done brown."
"Oh, horror!" cried the mother, wringing her hands. "Oh, what shall we do?"
"Go seek them!" said the father.
And in another moment without hats, shawl, anything, they had run out of the hut.
II
The sunset glow lighted the forest. It bathed the stately trees in rose and gold. It shone on the cool carpet of leaves and wild flowers, and played with the garlands of bright-colored vines.
But the purple mist of twilight that hung over the distant fir-colored hill sent gray shadows down. They crept behind the hedges and bushes, warning the birds, the bees, and the flowers that night was drawing nigh.