As she sharpened the knife, she
glanced from time to time at the little maid, and soon perceived that
she had once more ceased working.
"Why don't you go on darning?" asked the Ogress.
"Alas! dear mother," said the child, "when I hear you sharpening that
terrible knife my hands tremble so that I cannot thread my needle."
"Well, it will do now," growled the Ogress, feeling the edge of the
blade with her horny finger; and, having seen the darning-needle once
more at work, she went to fetch up one of the children. As she went,
she hummed what cookmaids sing--
"Dilly, dilly duckling, come and be killed!"
But it sounded like the wheezing and groaning of a heavy old door upon
its rusty hinges.
When she came in, with the child in one hand, and the huge knife in
the other, she went up to the little darner to look at her work. The
heel of the Ogre's stocking was exquisitely mended, all but seven
threads; but the little maid sat idle with her hands before her.
"Why don't you go on darning?" asked the Ogress.
"Alas! dear mother," was the reply, "when I think of my little
playmate about to die, the tears blind my eyes, so that I cannot see
what stitches I take. Wherefore I beg of you, dear mother, to cook one
of the little pigs instead, that I may be able to go on with my work,
and that a pair of stockings may be ready to-morrow morning when the
Ogre will ask for them; so my playmate's life will be spared, and your
head will not be put into a poke.
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