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THE WITCH. On a hill, some distance from the main road in the middle of Gudbrandsdale, some years ago stood a cottage. Perhaps it is there still. It was mild April weather, — the snow was melting, the brooks rushed wildly down the mountain sides, the fields were nearly bare, the thrushes were scolding each other in the woods, all the groves resounded with the twittering of birds, — in short there was every sign of an early spring. In the mighty birch tree and lofty.mountain ash, which stretched out their naked branches over the roof of the cottage in the glittering sunlight, some busy tomtits whisked about, while a chaffinch, who had perched himself in the top of the birch treet sung out at the top of his voice.
