Then she told the children how she had set traps for it, and how it had escaped every time.  But at last she had made a dear little cage, all woven of spring flowers and leaves, and put food in it.  Still the bird escaped, pulling the food out with its long bill and never getting inside the door.  And finally she told them how she did capture that wild, shy bird by learning its song and singing it sitting in her tree-house with the window open, until the bird heard and came flying in wonder to find what other bird was calling it.  Then she had closed the window and the bird was hers.  It hung now in the pretty cage in her prettiest room, and sometimes sang in the middle of the night.

Eric liked the story, and all the better because it was a true story.  And the Beautiful Wicked Witch said he could see the bird himself if he would come to her house.  He could stroke its bright breast, and it would sing perhaps.  Then there were other things caged in her house, cunning little animals, and some big ones, worth any boy’s seeing.

But Ivra answered for Eric, shaking her head hard.  “No, no.  Mother doesn’t want us to visit you.”

But Eric said, “May I open the cage door and the window and see the bird flash away?  I should like that.”

“No.  Well, perhaps,” said the Beautiful Wicked Witch.  “Will you come then?”

“I can’t, I suppose, if Mother Helma doesn’t want me to.  Are you sure she doesn’t, Ivra?”

Ivra was sure.

The Beautiful Wicked Witch laughed then.  “Of course, if you tell her she won’t let you come.  But if you came without telling, how could she mind?”

“That sounds true,—­but someway it can’t be,” said Ivra.  And that seemed to end it.

But after a little the Beautiful Wicked Witch began another story.  This one was about a frock she had made, a wonderful thing all of cobwebs and violet petals, with tiniest rosebuds around the neck.  If Ivra were to slip that frock over her head, and unbraid her funny little pigtails, she would look as pretty as any fairy in the world.

Ivra was not too young to want to be pretty.  If she would only go to the Beautiful Wicked Witch’s house, she could try on that dress, and wear it for one whole day if she liked.  Ivra clasped her hands.  But then she thought, and asked a question.  “Could I play in it, and run and climb?  Would I be as free as in this little old brown smock?”

The Beautiful Wicked Witch raised her hands in horror.  “My cobweb frock!  Why, it would be ruined!  It would be in shreds!  How can you even think of treating it so!”

So Ivra shook her head until her funny little pigtails flopped from side to side.  “I don’t want to wear it then for even a minute.  What fun would there be?”

“Well, think about it anyway,” said the Beautiful Wicked Witch, and rose to go away.  “It’s the fir, you know, beyond the white birch.”

“Thank you for the stories,” said the children.