On the mother's return, she, too, counts the children, and, finding Saturday gone, asks Sunday where she is. Sunday answers, "Oh, mother! an old witch called, and asked to borrow ——, and, whilst I was fetching it, she ran off with Saturday." The mother scolds and beats her, tells her to be more careful in the future, and again sets off for the market. This is repeated until all the children but Sunday have been stolen. Then the mother and Sunday, hand in hand, go off to search for them. They meet the old witch, who has them all crouching down in a line behind her.
Mother. Have you seen my children?
O. W. Yes! I think, by Eastgate.
The mother and Sunday retire, as if to go there, but, not finding them, again return to the witch, who this time sends them to Westgate, then to Southgate and Northgate. At last one of the children pops her head up over the witch's shoulder, and cries out, "Here we are, mother." Then follows this dialogue:—
M. I see my children, may I go in?
O. W. No! your boots are too dirty.
M. I will take them off.
O. W. Your stockings are too dirty.
M. I will take them off.
O. W. Your feet are too dirty.
M. I will cut them off.
O. W. Then the blood will stream over the floor.
The mother at this loses patience, and pushes her way in, the witch trying in vain to keep her out. She, with all her children, then chase the witch until they catch her; when they pretend to bind her hand and foot, put her on a pile, and burn her, the children fanning the imaginary flames with their pinafores. Sometimes the dialogue after "Here we are, mother," is omitted, and the witch is at once chased.
Mr. Halliwell Phillips calls this the "Game of the Gipsy," and gives some rhymes to which it is played, but I have never heard them in this county.
The next, a game quite unknown to me, I took down from the lips of a little girl in West Cornwall in 1882, who told me it was a great favourite with her and her playmates.
