She is not old; but she was a cross child. She fretted and
pouted, and scolded and screamed. She frowned till her brow began to
wrinkle. I do not know whether a fairy enchanted her or not, but when she
became angry there was one wrinkle that could not be removed. The next
time she was mad, another wrinkle remained. When she found that the
wrinkles would not come out she became mad at that, and of course, every
time she got into a passion there came other wrinkles. Then, too, her
temper grew worse. Her once beautiful voice began to sound like a cracked
tin horn. The wrinkles soon covered her face; then they grew crosswise;
you see it is all in beggars' presses. She got old; she shrivelled up;
she stooped over. She became so cross that she spends most of her time in
that funny little old house, to keep away from the rest of us. She must
have something to do, and so she gets angry at the stones and breaks them
up. She then carries them to the city and throws them into the river. She
must have something to beat, and so we let her have this poor donkey,
whose skin is thick. She beats him, and thus people are saved from her
ravings. I do not know whether she will ever come to her senses or not. O
Miriam, my daughter!"
At last Tilda dreamed that the funny, wrinkled, cross, little old woman,
got down one day off her donkey, poured the stones out of the bag, and
came and sat down by the beautiful lady.
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