Fairy Tales From Many Lands
Copyright© 2024 by Katharine Pyle
Buttercup
From the Norse
THERE was once a poor woman who I had one son, a little boy so fat and round, and with such bright yellow hair that he was called Buttercup. The house where they lived was upon the edge of a lonely forest, and upon the other side of this forest lived a wicked old witch.
One day when the woman was baking she heard Sharptooth, her dog, begin to bark. “Run, Buttercup, and see who is coming,” she said.
Buttercup ran and looked out. “Oh, Mother, it is an old witch with her head under one arm and a bag under the other.”
“Come, quick,” cried the mother, “and hide yourself in the dough trough so that she may not see you.”
Buttercup jumped into the dough trough and his mother shut the lid, so that no one would have known he was there.
Then in a moment there was a knock at the door, and the old witch opened it and looked in. She had put her head on where it belonged now, and she looked almost like any old woman.
“Good-day, daughter,” said she.
“Good-day, mother,” answered the woman.
“May I come in and rest my bones a bit?”
The woman did not want her to come in, but neither did she like to say no. “Come in, in heaven’s name.”
The old witch entered and sat down on the settle, and then she began to look and peer about the room.
“Have you no children?” she asked.
“Yes, I have one son.”
“And how do you call him?”
“I call him Buttercup.”
“Is he at home?”
“No; his father takes him out with him when he goes hunting.”
The old witch looked greatly disappointed. “I am sorry Buttercup is not at home, for I have a sweet little knife—a beautiful silver knife, and it is so sharp that it will cut through anything. If he were only here I would give it to him.”
When Buttercup in the dough trough heard this he opened the lid and looked out. “Peep! peep! here I am!” he cried.
“That is a lucky thing,” said she, and she looked well satisfied. “But the knife is at the bottom of my bag and I am so old and stiff that you will have to crawl in yourself and get it.”
Buttercup was willing, so into the bag he crawled. Then the old witch closed it and flung it over her shoulder, and away she went so fast that the good mother could neither stop her nor follow her.
The old witch went on and on through the forest, but after a while she began to feel very tired.
“How far is it to Snoring?” she asked of Buttercup in the bag.
“A good two miles,” answered Buttercup.
“Two miles! That is a long way. I’ll just lie down and sleep a bit, and do you keep as still as a mouse in the bag, or it will be the worse for you.”
She tied the mouth of the bag up tight, and then she fell fast asleep, and snored till the leaves shook overhead.
When he heard that, Buttercup took from his pocket a little dull old knife that his father had given him, and managed to cut a slit in the sack and crawl out. Then he found a gnarly stump of a fir tree and put that in the bag in his place and ran away home to his mother, and all this while the old witch never stirred.
After a time, however, she began to stretch her bones and look about her. “Eh! Eh!” she sighed, “that was a good sleep I had, but now we’ll be journeying on again.”
She slung the bag on her back, but the sharp points of the root kept sticking into her at every step. “That boy looked plump and soft enough,” she muttered to herself, “but now he seems all elbows and knees.” Then she cried to the stump, “Hey! there, you inside the bag, do not stick your bones into me like that. Do you think I am a pin cushion?”
The stump made no answer for it could not, and besides it had not heard, and the old witch hobbled on muttering and grumbling to herself.
When she reached her house her ugly, stupid witch daughter was watching for her from the window. “Have you brought home anything to eat?” she called.
“Yes, I have brought home a fine plump boy,” said the witch, and she threw the bag down on the floor and began rubbing her bruises. “I’m half dead with carrying him, too.”
“Let me see,” cried the daughter, and she untied the mouth of the sack and looked in. “A boy!” she cried. “This is no boy, but only an old stump of a fir tree.”
“Stupid you are, and stupid you will be,” cried the witch. “I tell you it is a boy and a good fat boy at that.”
“I tell you it is not,” said the girl.
“I tell you it is.” The old witch took up the sack and looked into it, and there, sure enough, was only an old stump that she had broken her back carrying home. Then she was in a fine rage. “How he got away I don’t know, but never mind! I’ll have him yet whether or no.”
So the next morning while the good woman on the other side of the forest was making her beds she heard Sharptooth begin to bark.
“Run, Buttercup, and see who is coming,” she called.
“Mother, it is the same old woman who was here yesterday.”
“Quick! Jump into the clock case, and do not dare to so much as stir a finger until she has gone.”
Buttercup ran and hid himself in the clock case, and presently there was a knock at the door and the old witch looked into the room.
“Good morning, daughter.”
“Good morning, mother.”
“May I come in and rest my poor old bones for a minute?”
“Come in, in heaven’s name.”
The old witch came in and sat down as near the dough trough as she dared.
“Daughter, I have journeyed far and I would be glad of a bit of bread to eat even if it is only the crust.”
Well, she might have that and welcome, so the good woman went to the dough trough to get a piece, for that was where she kept it. No sooner had she opened the lid than the old witch was close behind her, looking over her shoulder, and she was disappointed enough when she found that no Buttercup was there.
However, she sat down again with the piece of bread in her hand and began to munch and mumble it, though she had no liking for such dry food as that.
“Is your little boy Buttercup at home to-day?” she asked.
“No. He has gone with his father to catch some trout for dinner.”
“That is a pity,” said the old witch, “for I brought a present for him in my bag. I brought him a silver fork, and it is such a dear little, pretty little fork that every bite it carries to your mouth tastes better than what the king himself has to eat.”
When Buttercup heard that he could no longer keep still in the clock case. He must have that pretty little fork. “Peep! peep!” he cried, “here I am in the clock case.” And he opened the door and jumped out.
“That is well,” said the old witch, “but I am too old and stiff to bend over and you must crawl into the sack yourself to get the fork.”
Before his mother could stop him Buttercup was in the sack, and the old woman had closed the mouth of it, had swung it over her shoulder and was out of the house and off. There was no use in running after her; she went so fast.
After while she was well in the forest, and then she did not hurry so.
“How far is it to Snoring now, you in the bag?” she asked.
“Oh, a mile and a half at least.”
“That is a long way for old bones,” said the witch. “I’ll just sit down and rest a bit; but mind you, no tricks to-day, for I shall stay wide awake this time.”
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