When the moon stands high over the tree tops yonder we meet in the
clearing by the old oak. There the caldrons are ready with boiling lye,
for don't you know?--he's going to choose for his bride the one who can
wash three spots of tallow from his shirt, Ha, ha, ha!"
And the wicked witch hurried off again, laughing such a horrible laugh
that it made the lassie's blood run cold.
But now the trolls and witches came trooping out of the very earth, it
seemed, and all turned their steps toward the clearing in the woods.
So the lassie went too, and found a place among the rest. Now the moon
stood high above the tree tops, and there was the caldron in the middle
and round about sat the trolls and witches;--such gruesome company I'm
sure you were never in. Then came the Prince; he looked about from one
to the other, and he saw the lassie, and his face grew white, but he
said nothing.
"Now, let's begin," said a witch with a nose three ells long. She was
sure she was going to have the Prince, and she began to wash away as
hard as she could, but the more she rubbed and scrubbed, the bigger the
spots grew.
"Ah!" said an old hag, "you can't wash, let me try."
But she hadn't long taken the shirt in hand, before it was far worse
than ever, and with all her rubbing and scrubbing and wringing, the
spots grew bigger and blacker, and the darker and uglier was the shirt.
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