THERE was once a poor woman who I had one son, a little boy so fat and round, and with such bright yellow hair that he was called Buttercup. The house where they lived was upon the edge of a lonely forest, and upon the other side of this forest lived a wicked old witch.

One day when the woman was baking she heard Sharptooth, her dog, begin to bark. “Run, Buttercup, and see who is coming,” she said.

Buttercup ran and looked out. “Oh, Mother, it is an old witch with her head under one arm and a bag under the other.”

“Come, quick,” cried the mother, “and hide yourself in the dough trough so that she may not see you.”

Buttercup jumped into the dough trough and his mother shut the lid, so that no one would have known he was there.

Then in a moment there was a knock at the door, and the old witch opened it and looked in. She had put her head on where it belonged now, and she looked almost like any old woman.

“Good-day, daughter,” said she.

“Good-day, mother,” answered the woman.

“May I come in and rest my bones a bit?”

The woman did not want her to come in, but neither did she like to say no. “Come in, in heaven’s name.”

The old witch entered and sat down on the settle, and then she began to look and peer about the room.

“Have you no children?” she asked.

“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.

“How far is it to Snoring?” she asked of Buttercup in the bag.

“A good two miles,” answered Buttercup.

“Two miles! That is a long way. I’ll just lie down and sleep a bit, and do you keep as still as a mouse in the bag, or it will be the worse for you.”

She tied the mouth of the bag up tight, and then she fell fast asleep, and snored till the leaves shook overhead.

When he heard that, Buttercup took from his pocket a little dull old knife that his father had given him, and managed to cut a slit in the sack and crawl out. Then he found a gnarly stump of a fir tree and put that in the bag in his place and ran away home to his mother, and all this while the old witch never stirred.

After a time, however, she began to stretch her bones and look about her. “Eh! Eh!” she sighed, “that was a good sleep I had, but now we’ll be journeying on again.”

She slung the bag on her back, but the sharp points of the root kept sticking into her at every step. “That boy looked plump and soft enough,” she muttered to herself, “but now he seems all elbows and knees.” Then she cried to the stump, “Hey! there, you inside the bag, do not stick your bones into me like that. Do you think I am a pin cushion?”

The stump made no answer for it could not, and besides it had not heard, and the old witch hobbled on muttering and grumbling to herself.

When she reached her house her ugly, stupid witch daughter was watching for her from the window. “Have you brought home anything to eat?” she called.

“Yes, I have brought home a fine plump boy,” said the witch, and she threw the bag down on the floor and began rubbing her bruises. “I’m half dead with carrying him, too.”

“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.”

“Good morning, mother.”

“May I come in and rest my poor old bones for a minute?”

“Come in, in heaven’s name.”

The old witch came in and sat down as near the dough trough as she dared.

“Daughter, I have journeyed far and I would be glad of a bit of bread to eat even if it is only the crust.”

Well, she might have that and welcome, so the good woman went to the dough trough to get a piece, for that was where she kept it. No sooner had she opened the lid than the old witch was close behind her, looking over her shoulder, and she was disappointed enough when she found that no Buttercup was there.

However, she sat down again with the piece of bread in her hand and began to munch and mumble it, though she had no liking for such dry food as that.

“Is your little boy Buttercup at home to-day?” she asked.

“No. He has gone with his father to catch some trout for dinner.”

“That is a pity,” said the old witch, “for I brought a present for him in my bag. I brought him a silver fork, and it is such a dear little, pretty little fork that every bite it carries to your mouth tastes better than what the king himself has to eat.”

When Buttercup heard that he could no longer keep still in the clock case. He must have that pretty little fork. “Peep! peep!” he cried, “here I am in the clock case.” And he opened the door and jumped out.

“That is well,” said the old witch, “but I am too old and stiff to bend over and you must crawl into the sack yourself to get the fork.”

Before his mother could stop him Buttercup was in the sack, and the old woman had closed the mouth of it, had swung it over her shoulder and was out of the house and off. There was no use in running after her; she went so fast.

After while she was well in the forest, and then she did not hurry so.

“How far is it to Snoring now, you in the bag?” she asked.

“Oh, a mile and a half at least.”

“That is a long way for old bones,” said the witch. “I’ll just sit down and rest a bit; but mind you, no tricks to-day, for I shall stay wide awake this time.”

So she sat down by the road with her back against a tree. Then first she yawned, and next she nodded, and then she was asleep and snoring so that the very rocks around were shaken.

When Buttercup heard that, he whipped out his little knife and cut a slit in the sack and crawled out. Then he put a great heavy stone in the sack and ran away home as fast as his legs would carry him.

After while the old witch began to stretch and yawn. “Well, it’s time to be journeying on if we would reach Snoring by daylight,” she said, and she did not know she had been asleep at all. She picked up the bag, and whew! but it was heavy. “This boy is fat enough to break a body’s back,” said she. “He ought to make good eating.” But at every step the stone bounced against her ribs till she was black and blue. “Hi! there, you inside the sack, can’t you keep a little quieter?” she asked. But the stone made no answer, for it could not.

After a time the old witch reached her house, and her fat ugly daughter came running to meet her.

“Did you catch the same boy?” asked the girl.

“The very same, and fatter than ever,” answered the witch, and she threw the bag down on the floor, bump!

“Oh, let me see him.” And the witch girl put her hand on the bag.

“Let it alone!” screamed the witch mother. “If you go goggling at him again you’ll turn him into a stick or a stone or something, as you did before. Put on a kettle of water, and as soon as it is hot I’ll empty him into it.”

The witch girl did as she was told, and every time she went past the sack she gave it a poke with her foot. “The boy may be fat,” she said, “but he’s tough enough to break a body’s teeth in the eating.”

When the water began to boil she called her mother, and the old witch picked up the sack intending to empty Buttercup into the pot, but instead the great stone rolled into it, ker-splash! and the boiling water flew all about. It flew on the old witch and burned her so that she stamped about the kitchen gnashing her teeth with rage. The fat daughter was so frightened she ran out and hid in the stable until all was quiet again. “Never mind!” said the old witch. “I’ll have the boy to-morrow for sure.” So the next day she took up the bag and started off for the third time through the forest.

The good mother was scrubbing her pans when Sharptooth began to bark outside. “Run, Buttercup, and see who is coming now.”

“Mother, it is the same old witch who has been here twice before.”

“Quick, quick! Hide in the cellar way, and try not to breathe until she has gone.”

Buttercup ran and hid himself in the cellar way, and he was scarcely there before there was a knock at the door and the old witch pushed it open and looked in.

“May I come in and rest a bit?”

“Come in, in heaven’s name.”

The old witch stepped in and looked all about her.

“I would like to know what time it is.”

“Well, look for yourself; there stands the clock.”

The old witch went close to it and took the chance to peep inside the case, but no little boy was there. Then she sat down near the door.

“Is your little boy Buttercup at home to-day?”

The mother said, “No, he has gone to the mill with his father.”

“That is a pity,” said the old witch, “for I have a pretty little spoon in my bag that I meant to give to him, and it is such a smart little spoon that if you do but stir your porridge with it, it changes it into something so delicious that the princess herself would be glad to eat it.”

When Buttercup in the cellar way heard that he wanted the spoon so badly that he could stay hidden no longer. “Peep! peep! Here I am,” said he.

“I am glad of that,” said the witch, “for I had no wish to take the spoon home again; but you will have to crawl into the sack yourself to get it, for I am too old and stiff.”

In a moment Buttercup was in the sack, and in another moment the old witch had swung it over her back and was making off as fast as her legs would carry her. This time she neither stayed nor stopped, but went straight on home, and flung the sack on the floor with Buttercup in it.

“Did you get him this time?” asked the girl.

“Yes, I did,” said the old witch, “and there he is, as plump as any young chicken. Now I’ll be off to ask the guests, and do you put him in the pot and make a nice stew of him.”

As soon as she had gone the witch girl opened the sack and told Buttercup to come out. “Now put your head on the block, Buttercup,” she said, “so that I may chop it off.”

“But I do not know how,” said Buttercup.

“Stupid! It is easy enough; anyone would know how to do that.”

“Then show me how, and I will hold the ax for you.”

The stupid witch girl put her head on the block, and as soon as she did that, Buttercup cut it off. He put the head on the pillow of the bed and drew the coverlid up about it and then it looked exactly as though the witch girl were lying there asleep, but the body of her he popped into the pot of boiling water. Then he climbed up on the roof and took the fir tree stump and the stone with him.

And now home came the old witch again and all her troll friends with her, and they were an ugly looking set all together.

They went stamping into the house and the old witch began to bawl for her daughter, but there was no answer. She looked about her and spied the head there on the pillow with the covers drawn up about it. “So there you are!” cried the old witch. “Well, if you are too lazy to get up and eat your dinner, you will have to be content with what we leave.” Then she picked up a big spoon and tasted the broth.

said she, and smacked her lips.

sang Buttercup out on the roof.

“Who was that?” asked the witch.

“Oh, it was only a bird singing outside,” said her husband, and he took the spoon himself and tasted the broth.

said he.

sang Buttercup on the roof.

“There certainly is someone outside there mocking at us,” said the old witch, and she ran out to see.

As soon as she came out Buttercup threw the stump down on her and killed her, and that was the end of her.

The witch’s husband waited for a time, and when she did not come back he went to call her, but as soon as he stepped outside Buttercup rolled the big stone down on him, and that was an end of him.

The friends who had come to share the broth waited and waited for the witch and her husband to come back, but after a time, as they did not, the guests grew impatient and came out to look for them. When they saw the two lying there dead they never stopped for the broth, but ran away as fast as they could go, and for all I know they may be running still.

But Buttercup climbed down from the roof, and hunted round in the house until he found where the witch kept her money chest all full of gold and silver money. Then he filled the sack with as much as he could carry, and started home again. When he reached there you may guess whether or not his mother was glad to see him. Then there was no more poverty for them, for the money in the sack was enough to make them rich for all their lives.