Imprisoned thus in my Witchy Wiles, Robbed of all hope, all food, all smiles, A Fearful Doom o'er-hangs thy Rest, Unless thou meet my Dread Behest! "Oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear!" cried our Mother. "Can nothing save us?" My Father burst his nose-ring! Rosalee giggled! Carol and I jumped up and down! We clapped our hands! The Rich Man cocked his head on one side. He looked at our Aunt Esta. At her funny black pointed hat. At her scraggly gray wig. At her great horn-rimmed spectacles. At the hump on her back. "U-m-m," he said. "What do you mean,--'witch-y wiles?'" "_Silence!_" said our Aunt Esta. "Read your cards!" We read our cards. Carol's card said "PINK BREEZE" on it. And "SLIMY FROG." Our Aunt Esta poked Carol twice with her wand. "Pitiful Wretch!" said our Aunt Esta. "It is now two o'clock.--Unless you are back here exactly at three o'clock--bearing a _Pink Breeze_ in your hands--you shall be turned for all time and eternity into a _Slimy Green Frog_!--Go hence!" Carol went hence. He henced as far as the Mulberry Tree on the front lawn. He sat down on the grass with the card in his hand. He read the card. And read it. And read it. It puzzled him very much. "Pitiful Wretch, go _hence_!" cried our Aunt Esta. He henced as far as the Larch Tree this time. And sat down all over again. And puzzled. And puzzled. "Go _hence_, I say, Pitiful Wretch!" insisted our Aunt Esta. My Mother didn't like Carol to be called a "Pitiful Wretch."--It was because he was dumb, I suppose. When my Mother doesn't like anything it spots her cheek-bones quite red. Her cheek-bones were spotted very red. "Stop your fussing!" said our Aunt Esta. "And attend to your own business!" My Mother attended to her own business. The business of her card said "SILVER BIRD" and "HORSE'S HOOF." Even our Aunt Esta looked a bit flabbergasted. "Oh, dear--oh, dear," said our Aunt Esta. "I certainly am sorry that it was you who happened to draw that one!--And all dressed up in white too as you are! But after all--" she jerked with a great toss of her scraggly wig, "a Game is a Game! And there can be no concessions!" "No, of course not!" said my Mother. "Lead me to the Slaughter!" "There is not necessarily any slaughter connected with it," said our Aunt Esta very haughtily. But she hit my Mother only once with her wand. "Frail Creature," she said. "On the topmost branch of the tallest tree in the world there is a silver bird with a song in his throat that has never been sung! Unless you bring me this bird _singing_ you are hereby doomed to walk with the clatter of a Horse's Hoof!" "Horse's Hoof?" gasped my Mother. "With the clatter of a Horse's Hoof?" My Father was pretty mad. "Why, it's impossible!" he said. "She's as light as Thistle-Down! Even in her boots it's like a Fairy passing!" "Nevertheless," insisted our Aunt Esta. "She shall walk with the clatter of a Horse's Hoof--unless she brings me the Silver Bird."