“Fairest of mortals,” replied the Gnome, submissively, “be not unjust in thy anger; I have no will but thine, I do all in my power to please thee, but ask not impossibilities. I command the powers of nature, but I cannot change her inflexible laws. So long as the turnips preserved any vegetative vigour, the magic wand was capable of metamorphosing them at thy pleasure; but now that their juices are dried up, they inevitably verge towards dissolution, the elementary spirit by which they were vivified having now evaporated. But grieve not for this, my beloved; a second basket of turnips will easily restore all thou hast lost, and give thee back thy companions. Return to Mother Nature those gifts which have served to amuse thee for the past few weeks; thou wilt find more agreeable company on the great grass plot in the garden.”
Having thus spoken, the Gnome withdrew. Emma touched the old women with her wand, and they became a set of shrunken and withered turnips, which she forthwith treated as a child does a plaything he is tired of; threw the rubbish out of the window, and thought no more about it.
Then she ran off to the great grass plot, in hope of there finding another basket of turnips; but found it not. In vain did she search through every part of the garden, up and down: no basket was to be seen. Near the grape espaliers she met the Gnome, whose
