now they sat sideways on the wild hunting dogs, took the young Will-o’-
the-Wisps in their laps, who wanted to go into the town to mislead and
entice mortals, and, whisk! away they were. Now, this is what happened last
night. To-day the Will-o’-the-Wisps are in the town, and have taken the
matter in hand-but where and how? Ah, can you tell me that? Still, I’ve a
lightning conductor in my great toe, and that will always tell me
something.”
“Why, this is a complete story,” exclaimed the man.
“Yes, but it is only the beginning,” replied the woman. “Can you tell me
how the Will-o’-the-Wisps deport themselves, and how they behave? and in
what shapes they have aforetime appeared and led people into crooked
paths?”
“I believe,” replied the man, “that one could tell quite a romance about
the Will-o’-the-Wisps, in twelve parts; or, better still, one might make quite
a popular play of them.”
“You might write that,” said the woman, “but it’s best let alone.”
“Yes, that’s better and more agreeable,” the man replied, “for then we
shall escape from the newspapers, and not be tied up by them, which is just
as uncomfortable as for a Will-o’-the-Wisp to lie in decaying wood, to have
to gleam, and not to be able to stir.”
“I don’t care about it either way,” cried the woman. “Let the rest write,
those who can, and those who cannot likewise. I’ll grant you an old bung
from my cask that will open the cupboard where poetry’s kept in bottles,
and you may take from that whatever may be wanting. But you, my good
man, seem to have blotted your hands sufficiently with ink, and to have
come to that age of satiety that you need not be running about every year
for stories, especially as there are much more important things to be done.
You must have understood what is going on?”
“The Will-o’-the-Wisp is in town,” said the man. “I’ve heard it, and I
have understood it. But what do you think I ought to do? I should be
