There was a man in the olden time, and he owned a snug little farm.

What did he do, of a winter’s day, only break a great branch off a lone bush for to burn in the fire. A thorn went into his hand and it pierced it through.

“That was a sore jag,” says he.

But there was a little grey woman sitting in under the lone bush, and she let a terrible laugh.

There were two of the neighbours seen what occurred, and they passing down through the field. One of them ran away home, but the other, a venturesome lad, came across.

“What are you after doing, my poor fellow?” says he. [186]
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