re the bag was half empty, Scrub and
Fairfeather firmly believed that there must be something very
noble-looking about them.

The old woman was a wood-witch. Her name was Buttertongue, and all her
time was spent in making mead, which being boiled with strange herbs and
spells, had the power of making all who drank it fall asleep and dream
with their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one was named Spy and
the other Pounce. Wherever their mother went, they were not far behind;
and whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed by the dwarfs.

Scrub and Fairfeather sat leaning against the old tree. The cobbler had
a lump of cheese in his hand; his wife held fast a hunch of bread. Their
eyes and mouths were both open, but they were dreaming of the fine
things at the Court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice:

"What ho, my sons! come here, and carry home the harvest."

No sooner had she spoken than the two little dwarfs darted out of the
nearest thicket.

"Idle boys!" cried the mother, "what have you done to-day to help our
living?"

"I have been to the city," said Spy, "and could see nothing. These are
hard times for us--everybody minds his work so contentedly since that
cobbler came. But here is a leathern doublet which his page threw out of
the window. It's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was not
idle." And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in it,
which he had carried like a bundle on his little back.

To let you know how Spy got hold of it, I must tell you that the forest
was not far from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem.
All things had gone well with the cobbler till the King thought that it
was quite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His
Majesty, therefore, to let all men understand his royal favour towards
Spare, appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him.

The name of this youth was Tinseltoes, and, though he was the seventh of
the King's pages in rank, nobody in all the Court had grander notions.
Nothing could please him that had not gold or silver about it, and his
grandmother feared he would hang himself for being made page to a
cobbler. As for Spare, if anything could have troubled him, this mark of
His Majesty's kindness would have done it.

The honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was
always in the way; but his merry leaves came to his aid; and, to the
great surprise of his grandmother, Tin