“You’ve been a long time coming!” said the Moor-woman. “Witches get
forward faster than men, and I’m glad that I belong to the witch folk!”
“What have you to say to me now?” asked the man. “Is it anything about
the Story?”
“Can you never get beyond asking about that?” retorted the woman.
“Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?” resumed the
man.
“Don’t get on your stilts,” said the crone, “and I’ll answer you. You think
of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story, as if she were the lady
of the whole troop. She’s the oldest of us all, but she takes precedence of
the youngest. I know her well. I’ve been young, too, and she’s no chicken
now. I was once quite a pretty elf-maiden, and have danced in my time with
the others in the moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone
into the forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out
there, running about. Sometimes she took up her night’s lodging in a half-
blown tulip, or in a field flower; sometimes she would slip into the church,
and wrap herself in the mourning crape that hung down from the candles on
the altar.”
“You are capitally well-informed,” said the man.
“I ought at least to know as much as you,” answered the Moor-woman.
“Stories and poetry-yes, they’re like two yards of the same piece of stuff;
they can go and lie down where they like, and one can brew all their prattle,
and have it all the better and cheaper. You shall have it from me for nothing.
I have a whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. It makes essences; and
that’s the best of it-bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people
want of poetry, in bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief, on
holidays, to smell.”
“Why, these are wonderful things that you’re telling!” said the man. “You
have poetry in bottles?”
