“I heard them say so myself,” returned Colin.
“Those fairies are worse liars than any I know. But something must be done. Sit down and I’ll tell you a story.”
“There’s only nine days of the seven years left,” said Colin, in a tone of expostulation.
“I know that as well as you,” answered the old woman. “Therefore, I say, there is not time to be lost. Sit down and listen to my story. Here, Jenny.”
The hen came pacing solemnly out from under the bed.
“Off to the sheepshearing, Jenny, and make haste, for I must spin faster than usual. There are but nine days left.”
Jenny ran out at the door with her head on a level with her tail, as if the kite had been after her. In a few moments she returned with a bunch of wool, as they called it, though it was only cotton from the cottongrass that grew all about the cottage, nearly as big as herself, in her bill, and then darted away for more. The old woman fastened it on her distaff, drew out a thread to her spindle, and then began to spin. And as she spun she told her story—fast, fast; and Jenny kept scampering out and in; and by the time Colin thought it must be midnight, the story was told, and seven of the nine days were over.
“Colin,” said the old woman, “now that you know all about it, you must set off at once.”
“I am ready,” answered Colin, rising.
“Keep on the road Jenny will show you till you come to the cobbler’s. Tell him the old woman with the distaff requests him to give you a lump of his wax.”
“And what am I to do with it?”