“Right you are, missis,” said the men. “We’ll keep an eye on your sack.”
So the witch left the sack with the men, and off she went to fetch her salt.
As soon as she was gone, “Now then,” said Jack. “You let us out, and I’ll give you some buttermilk.” Well, the men let Jack out, and he gave them some buttermilk, and he said, “I know what. Fill this here sack up with the stones you’ve been digging, and I’ll get off home.”
So the men filled the sack with the stones, and Jack went home. And along comes the witch with the salt, takes the sack full of stones, sets the sack on her back, and off she goes.
Well, it wasn’t long before the stones began to rattle, and the witch, she said, “My lad Jack, your bones do crack!” But when she got to her house and opened the sack and tipped the stones on to a clean white sheet, she said, “Well, I’ll be jiggered! Jack, my lad, I’m going to catch you, and then I’m going to roast you; and that’s a fact.”
The next day, Jack met the witch again.
“Jack, my lad,” said the witch, “sell me a bit of your buttermilk.”
“No,” said Jack, “I shall not.”
“If you don’t,” said the witch, “I’ll put you in my sack.”
“No,” said Jack. “Not a drop,” said Jack. “You can’t have any; and that’s that.”
So the witch put Jack in her sack, the sack on her back, and set off for home. And when she got to her house, the witch said to her cat, “Just you keep an eye on this sack for me, while I fetch sticks for the fire.”
The witch left the sack with the cat, and locked the door behind her while she fetched sticks for the fire.
As soon as she was gone, “Now then,” said. Jack. “You let us out, and I’ll give you some buttermilk.” Well, the cat let Jack out, and he gave it some buttermilk; and after that, he filled the sack with every pot in the witch’s scullery. Then he ran up the flue, down the roof and all the way back to his own house.
The witch came in with the sticks. She lit the fire, opened the sack, tipped the pots on to a clean white sheet, and broke them every single one.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said the witch. “Jack, my lad!” she shouted up the chimney. “Keep your buttermilk, you great nowt! And never again come near me!”
And he never did.
Mr and Mrs Vinegar lived in a vinegar bottle, and one day Mrs Vinegar was sweeping the house so hard she broke it all to bits.
“Eh dear,” said Mr Vinegar when he came home. “Smashed to smithereens. But never mind.” And he picked up the door of the house, and set it on his back and marched off with Mrs Vinegar into the world to mend their fortunes.
After a while, they came to a wood, and a thick dark wood it was, too, by all accounts, with wolves and bears and suchlike in it; and Mr and Mrs Vinegar didn’t fancy spending the night there; they did not. So they marched up into a tree, with their door, and settled themselves to sleep in the branches.
Well, they hadn’t been there long when what should happen but a gang of robbers sat down at the bottom of the tree and started to share out the money they’d got from robbing people and cutting their throats. “Here’s a guinea for you,” one was saying, and, “No, it isn’t,” says another, “that’s mine;” and another, “It never is,” he says, “just you give it here!” and so on, till they were fighting and making such a row that Mr and Mrs Vinegar, up in the tree, didn’t know what to do. They shook and they shook. They trembled and they trembled; and they trembled the door right out of the tree down on to the robbers’ heads; and the robbers, they ran off, hall scared to death.
But Mr and Mrs Vinegar didn’t dare to come down from that tree until daylight. Then Mr Vinegar picked up the door to set it on his back and march off to mend their fortunes; and what should he see under that door but a heap of golden guineas that the robbers had left behind them.
“Eh dear,” said Mr Vinegar. “What a performance.”
“My stars and garters and little apples!” said Mrs Vinegar. “You take these golden guineas and buy us a cow, and that will set us up for life.”
So Mr Vinegar took the golden guineas, and he went to the market to buy him a cow. And he bought a cow: a fine, red cow in full milk it was. He handed over the golden guineas, and he drove the cow back along the road to show his wife.
Well, he hadn’t gone far when he met a man playing the bagpipes, and all the children were following him and dancing.
“Eh dear,” said Mr Vinegar. “I do wish I had those bagpipes, and then. But never mind.”
“You can have these bagpipes,” said the man, “if you’ll give me your red cow.”
“Done!” said Mr Vinegar. And he gave the man the red cow, and the man gave him the bagpipes, and Mr Vinegar marched off down the road, the children following. But Mr Vinegar had never learned to play on bagpipes, nor on anything else, for that matter, and the children soon began to laugh at him and his caterwauling. They didn’t dance any more, either, and Mr Vinegar’s fingers grew stiff and cold with trying to play.
“Eh dear,” said Mr Vinegar. “I do wish I had a pair of gloves to warm me, and then. But never mind.”
“You can have my gloves,” said a man on the road, “if you’ll give me your bagpipes.”
“Done!” said Mr Vinegar. And he gave the man the bagpipes, and Mr Vinegar put the gloves on and marched off to show them to his wife.
By this time it was getting late, and Mr Vinegar was tired, and when he saw a man coming towards him with a good stout stick in his hand, Mr Vinegar said, “Eh dear. I do wish I had a good stout stick in my hand to lean on, and then. But never mind.”
‘You can have my stick,” said the man, “if you’ll give me your gloves.”
“Done!” said Mr Vinegar. The man took the gloves, and Mr Vinegar took the stick and he marched off to show it to his wife.
Now there was a parrot sitting in a tree, and when it saw Mr Vinegar on the road it laughed, and said, “You rum cove! You could have got that stick from any hedge. Where are your golden guineas now?”
“You get off with your bother!” said Mr Vinegar, and he was so vexed he threw the stick at the parrot; but he missed, and the stick lodged fast in the tree where he couldn’t reach it, and the parrot flew away, laughing.
So, with no cow, no bagpipes, no gloves, and no stick, either, Mr Vinegar went back to his wife. But Mrs Vinegar, didn’t she give him some stick, after? What! She did that! I’ll say she did! She gave him stick all right, and no error!
Once upon a time there was a grey goat, and she had three