"They are," says she.
"And—and—" says he, and comes to a stop—"I reckon we'll tackle business now, having done the polite like. Have you any brains for to sell?"
"That depends," says she, "if thou wants king's brains, or soldier's brains, or schoolmaster's brains, I dinna keep 'em."
"Hout no," says he, "jist ordinary brains—fit for any fool—same as every one has about here; something clean common-like."
"Aye so," says the wise woman, "I might manage that, if so be thou 'lt help thyself."
"How's that for, missis?" says he.
"Jest so," says she, looking in the pot; "bring me the heart of the thing thou likest best of all, and I'll tell thee where to get thy pottle o' brains."
"But," says he, scratching his head, "how can I do that?"
"That's no for me to say," says she, "find out for thyself, my lad! if thou doesn't want to be a fool all thy days. But thou 'll have to read me a riddle so as I can see thou 'st brought the right thing, and if thy brains is about thee. And I've something else to see to," says she, "so gode'en to thee," and she carried the pot away with her into the back place.
So off went the fool to his mother, and told her what the wise woman said.