When the last marksman had shot, the little Witch nudged Thomas. “You go forward now,” she said.
“What am I to do?”
“Have a shot!”
The boy understood. He made his way to the open space in front of the post.
“You, you imp!” cried the Captain. He was going to send him back again. But at that the people shouted, “No, let him have a shot! We want him to have a shot!” They thought that would be great fun.
“All right,” said the Captain angrily. “But he won’t have much luck.”
Thomas picked up a rifle. He levelled it and took aim like a veteran.
The people held their breath. They stood on tiptoe, watching the eagle in suspense.
There was a flash and a bang. The eagle toppled off the post. Thomas was the champion shot!
“Hurrah!” cried all the people, waving their hats in the air. “Long live Thomas! Thomas from the Oxen has won the ox.”
They stormed the shooting ground and raised the happy marksman on their shoulders.
“Up on the ox with him! Up on the ox!”
“Me too!” cried Veronica.
“Come on up,” said Thomas. “It’s your ox too.”
If the two children had had their way, the little Witch would have been hoisted up on the back of Corbinian the ox as well. But she refused to come. Thomas and Veronica had to ride into town on the ox by themselves.
Before them went the band playing one joyful march after another. Behind followed the Captain and his men with sour faces.
The crowd waved wildly. “Bravo!” they shouted. “Long live the champion!”
On the way a gentleman from the newspaper pushed his way towards the children. “And when is the ox to be roasted?” he asked, opening his notebook and taking out his pencil.
“The ox isn’t going to be roasted at all,” replied Thomas. “He’s going back to his stall, and there he’ll stay.”
The bells rang, the cannon boomed. No one noticed the little Witch climb on her broomstick behind the marquee and ride happily away.
“You’ve brought it off again!” Abraxas praised her. “If you ask me, that cancels out the spells you cast on a Friday.”
The Chestnut Man
Winter had come. A snowstorm howled round the witch’s house, beating on the shutters. The little Witch didn’t mind. She sat on the bench in front of the tiled stove then, day in, day out, warming her back. On her feet she wore thick felt slippers. From time to time she clapped her hands. Whenever she clapped, one of the logs lying in the box by the grate leapt into the opening of the stove of its own accord. And if she happened to fancy a baked apple, she had only to snap her fingers. At once apples came rolling along from the larder and hopped into the hearth.
Abraxas the raven was very happy. “This really is a splendid way to spend the long winter!” he kept saying.
But in time the little Witch grew tired of her lazy life. “Am I to sit on the bench by the stove warming my back all winter?” she said peevishly one day. “I need fresh air and exercise again. Come on, let’s go out for a ride.”
“What?” cried Abraxas in horror. “Do you take me for a penguin? This freezing cold is no weather for me, thank you very much for the invitation! Let’s stay at home in the warm!”
“Just as you like,” said the little Witch. “You can stay at home, for all I care. I shall just go out riding by myself. I’m not afraid of the cold. I shall wrap up warm enough.”
The little Witch put on seven petticoats, one on top of the other. Then she tied her big woollen headscarf round her head, got into her winter boots and put two pairs of mittens on. Wrapped up like this she jumped on her broomstick and flew out up the chimney.
It was bitterly cold outside. The trees wore thick white coats. The moss and stones had disappeared under the snow. Here and there, footprints and sleigh tracks led through the wood. The little Witch steered her broomstick towards the nearest village. The farmyards were snowed right under, and the church tower wore a fluffy snow cap. Smoke climbed from all the chimneys. As she rode by, the little Witch heard the farmers and their men threshing corn in the barns – thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump. There were swarms of children tobogganing on the hills behind the village. People were skiing too. The little Witch watched them race downhill. Soon afterwards a truck came along to sand the road. She followed that for a little while, and then she joined a flock of crows flying towards the town.
I’ll go into the town and have a walk, to warm myself up a bit, she thought. For by now she was miserably cold, in spite of her seven petticoats and two pairs of mittens. There was no need to hide the broomstick this time; she carried it over her shoulder. Now she looked just like an ordinary little old woman going to sweep the snow away. No one who met her thought anything of it. All the people were in a hurry and trudged past her with bent heads.
The little Witch would have been only too pleased to have another look at the displays in the shop windows. But the panes were all frosted over with flowers of ice. The well in the market-place was frozen, and icicles hung from the inn signs.
In the market-place there was a narrow wooden stall painted green. There was an iron stove in front of it, and behind the stove, with his back to the stall, stood a shrivelled little man. He wore a big driving coat and felt shoes. He had turned up his collar and pulled his cap down over his forehead. From time to time the little man sneezed. Whenever he sneezed the spray fell hissing on the glowing top of the stove.
“What are you doing there?” the little Witch asked the man.
“Can’t you see? I’m – a-tishoo! – I’m roasting Spanish chestnuts.”
“Spanish chestnuts? What do you mean?”
“Sweet chestnuts,” the little man explained. “Would you like to try some?” he asked, taking the lid off the stove. “A penny the small bag, two pence the big one. A-tishoo!”
The smell of roast chestnuts rose to the little Witch’s nostrils. “I’d love to taste them,” she said, “but I haven’t any money with me.”
“Never mind, then, I’ll give you a few for nothing,” said the little man. “You can do with something warm in this wicked cold. A-tishoo! and that’s the truth.”
The little man blew his nose. Then he took a handful of chestnuts out of the stove and put them in a brown paper bag. He gave it to the little Witch.
“There you are!” he said. “But you must shell them before you put them in your mouth.”
“Thank you very much,” said the little Witch. She tried the chestnuts. “Mm, how good they are!” she cried in surprise. Then she said, “You know, one could almost envy you! You have easy work, and standing by the warm stove you needn’t be cold.”
“Don’t say that!” the little man contradicted her. “Standing about in the cold all day, you get frozen just the same. Even the iron stove doesn’t help. At most you burn your fingers on it getting the hot chestnuts out. A-tishoo! But apart from that, let me tell you, my feet are a pair of icicles. And as for my nose – isn’t it as red as a candle on a Christmas tree? I shall never get rid of this cold. It’s dreadful.”
As if to prove it, the little man sneezed again. It was such a heart-rending sneeze that the wooden stall rocked and the market-place echoed.
I can help him, the little Witch thought. Wait a minute … And she murmured a magic spell to herself. “Are your toes still cold?” she asked.
“Not just at the moment,” said the man. “I think the cold has eased off a little. I can tell by the end of my nose. I wonder how that happened?”
“Don’t ask me,” said the little Witch. “I must ride home now.”
“Ride home!”
“Did I say ride? You must have heard wrong.”
“Perhaps I did,” said the little man. “Good day.”
“Good day,” said the little Witch. “And thank you very much!”
“Not at all – don’t mention it.”
Soon afterwards two boys came running across the m
arket-place. “Quick, quick, Mr Chestnut man!” they cried. “A penny-worth for each of us!”
“Two penny-worths, certainly. Here you are!”
The chestnut man reached into the stove.
But for the first time in all his long career as a chestnut man he didn’t burn his fingers on the hot chestnuts. He never burnt them again at all. His toes never froze again, either, and nor did his nose. His cold was gone for good; it might have been blown away. And if ever he wanted to sneeze again, the good chestnut man had to take a pinch of snuff.
Better Than Seven Petticoats
The little Witch reached home again towards dusk. Abraxas the raven at once wanted to hear what had happened on her ride.
“I’ll tell you later,” answered the little Witch, her teeth chattering. “First I must m-make t-tea. I’m so c-cold, I c-can hardly s-speak.”
“There you are!” croaked Abraxas. “That’s because you simply would go out riding in this dreadful cold! But you just wouldn’t listen to me.”
The little Witch made herself a big pot of herb tea. She sweetened it with plenty of sugar. Then she sipped the hot brew. It did her good, and soon she grew warmer again.
Then she took off her seven petticoats, down to the bottom one, stripped off her shoes and stockings and got into her slippers.
“I won’t deny it, I did get frozen stiff,” she said. “But it was fun all the same, let me tell you.”
She sat down on the bench by the stove and began to tell her story. Abraxas the raven listened to her in silence.
Not till the story of the chestnut man was told did he interrupt her to say, “You know, I just don’t understand at all. You help this chestnut man to keep warm by witchcraft, but you didn’t help yourself! What’s a reasonable bird supposed to make of that?”
“What do you mean?” asked the little Witch.
“What do you think I mean? If I were you and I could work magic, I wouldn’t need herb tea to warm me up, certainly not! I wouldn’t let things get that far.”
“But I did all I could!” said the little Witch. “I put on two pairs of mittens, and my winter boots, and my woollen headscarf, and seven petticoats.”
“Bah!” said Abraxas. “I’d know a better way to keep the cold off than seven petticoats.”
“Better than seven petticoats?”
“Much better. As sure as I’m a raven and my name’s Abraxas.”
The little Witch still didn’t understand. “Tell me what you think I should have done,” she asked him. “But you must be clearer and not keep talking in riddles.”
“Talking in riddles, am I?” said Abraxas. “It’s as clear as day. If you can cast spells to keep the chestnut man from freezing, why, may I ask, why can’t you cast the same spells for yourself?”
“Goodness me!” cried the little Witch, clapping her hand to her forehead. “That’s perfectly true! Why on earth didn’t I think of that before? You’re quite right – after all, what’s the use of being a witch?”
“Exactly,” Abraxas agreed. “Sometimes you seem to forget you’re a witch at all. It’s a good thing you’ve got someone to remind you now and then.”
The little Witch nodded eagerly in reply.
“Yes,” she said, “you really are the wisest raven that ever hatched out of an egg. Of course – I’ll follow your advice on the spot. And if you like I’ll bewitch you with my spell to keep the cold off too, so you won’t have to stay at home in the future when I go out riding.”
“All right,” said Abraxas. “I don’t mind having you do me a good turn for once.”
So the little Witch cast a spell to keep herself and the raven from getting frozen again. After that they could go out for rides even in the bitterest weather, without feeling the cold at all. They didn’t have to wrap up specially warm, and they didn’t need herb tea afterwards.
And although they went out almost every day after this, they never caught colds again.
Snowman
It was a beautiful, sunny winter’s day. The sky shone bright blue and the snow gleamed pure white as a newly washed linen sheet. The little Witch was sitting at the edge of the wood with Abraxas the raven, sunning herself. All at once, they heard children’s voices shouting happily somewhere near. The little Witch sent Abraxas the raven off to see what was going on. After a little while he came back.
“It’s some children,” he said, “tiny little scraps about six or seven years old. They’re building themselves a snowman over there in the meadow behind the hedge.”
“I must have a look at it,” said the little Witch. It wasn’t far to the meadow behind the hedge, so she went on foot.
The snowman was just finished. He had a carrot stuck in his face for a nose and lumps of coal for eyes. His hat was a battered old saucepan. He held a birch broom proudly in his right hand.
The children didn’t notice the little Witch when she appeared from behind the hedge. They were holding hands and dancing round the snowman, hopping from one leg to the other. As they danced they sang.
Snowman with your nose so red,
Old tin saucepan on your head,
Snowman with your coat so white,
Don’t you think the frost will bite?
The little Witch was delighted with the beautiful snowman and the children. She would have liked to join in and dance with them.
But then, all of a sudden, some big boys came running out of the wood nearby, seven of them in all. Shouting and yelling, they fell on the snowman and knocked him down. They kicked the saucepan about and broke the broomstick in two, and they rubbed snow in the faces of the children who had just been dancing so happily. Goodness knows what else they might have done to the children if the little Witch hadn’t stepped in.
“Hey there!” she said angrily to the big boys. “You leave the children alone. If you don’t stop it I’ll give you a good thrashing with my broomstick!”
At that the big boys ran away. But the lovely snowman was spoilt.
The children felt very sad and hung their heads. The little Witch understood. She tried to comfort the children.
“Build yourselves a new snowman,” she suggested. “What about that?”
“If we build another snowman the big boys will come and knock the new one down too,” said the children. “Besides, they’ve broken our broom in two, and we haven’t got another.”
“I think it only seemed broken,” said the little Witch, bending over the broken broom. “There – look at it.”
She showed the broom to the children. They saw that it was mended.
“Build your snowman and don’t worry,” the little Witch encouraged the children. “You needn’t be afraid of the big boys. If they come back they’ll get what they deserve, you can be sure of that!”
The children let her persuade them. They built a new snowman. He was even finer and more magnificent than the first one, because the little Witch was lending a hand this time.
But when the new snowman was finished, it wasn’t long before the seven boys came tearing out of the wood again shouting and yelling. The children were frightened and wanted to run away.
“Stay here!” cried the little Witch. “See what’s going to happen.”
And what did happen when the seven boys came charging up?
Suddenly the new snowman began to move. Swinging his birch broom like a club he defended himself against the big boys.
He struck the first one on his fur cap with the broomstick. He gave the second a good smack on the nose with his left hand. He caught hold of the third and the fourth and knocked their heads together so hard that you could hear the crack. He flung the fifth against the sixth, so that they both fell flat on the ground taking the seventh along with them.
Once they were all lying there the snowman took his broom and swept up a big heap of snow over the boys.
That was more than they had bargained for.
They tried to shout for help, but they only swallowed snow. They threshed about desperately wit
h their arms and legs. When at last, and with great difficulty, they had struggled free, they ran away in terror.
The snowman went calmly back to his place and stiffened up again. He stood there as if nothing at all had happened.
The children shouted for joy, for the big boys would never come back again, that was certain. And the little Witch laughed so loud over the success of her trick that tears came into her eyes, and Abraxas the raven cried in alarm, “Stop, stop, or you’ll burst!”
What Do You Bet?
How did there come to be two knife throwers in the snow-covered village street? And since when had there been cowboys and Indians in these parts? Knife throwers with red caps and wide baggy trousers – and Indians with faces painted fiercely, waving long spears over their heads.
They must be from the circus, thought Abraxas the raven.
But the two knife throwers didn’t come from the circus. No more did the cowboys and Indians. The Chinese women, the cannibal, the Indian girls, the desert sheikh and the pirate were not part of the show either. No – it was carnival time in the village. The children had a half-holiday from school because of the carnival, and they were romping about the village square in fancy dress.
The princesses threw paper streamers. “Wah! Waah!” roared a pirate. “I’m hungry!” shouted the cannibal. “Who wants to be gobbled up? I’m hungrrry!” The Chinese girls talked in Chinese, the Indian girls chattered in their language, and the cowboys shot corks into the air from the pistols. The chimney sweep flourished his cardboard top hat, Punch hit the desert sheikh on the turban with his wooden sword, and Jaromir the robber chief made such dreadful faces that his moustache came unstuck and kept falling off.
“Do you see the little witch over there?” asked Abraxas after a while.
“Where?”
“Over by the fire station. With the long broom!”
The Little Witch Page 4
