"Nothing to get?--well, that is nice talk, I'm sure. We'll see if there is nothing to get," he answered, roaring with laughter--and he began to take things out of his basket. First he took out a ham, then some butter. Flour and sausages followed, and then a dozen eggs; turnips, and onions, and finally some tea. Then at last the good fellow turned the basket upside down, and out rolled a lot of potatoes. "Where in the world did all of these things come from?" she cried. "I had good luck with my brooms, when all seemed lost, and here we are with a feast before us. Now call the children and let us begin." "I was so angry because the milk got spilt that I sent them off to the woods for berries and told them not to come home till they had a basket full. I really thought that was all we should have for supper." At this the father looked frightened. "What if they have gone to the Ilsenstein?" he cried, jumping up and taking a broom from the wall. "Well, what harm?" the wife inquired, "and why do you take the broom?" "What harm? Do you not know that it is the awful magic mountain where the old witch who eats little children dwells?--and do you not know that she rides on a broomstick. I may need one to follow her, in case she has got the children." "Oh, heavens above! What a wicked woman I was to send the children out. What shall we do? Do you know anything more about that awful ogress?" she demanded of her husband, trembling fit to die. An old witch within that wood doth dwell, And she's in league with the powers of hell. At midnight hour, When nobody knows, Away to the witches' dance she goes. Up the chimney they fly, On a broomstick they hie, Over hill and dale, O'er ravine and vale, Through the midnight air They gallop full tear, On a broomstick, on a broomstick Hop, hop, hop, hop, the witches! And by day, they say, She stalks around, With a crinching, crunching, munching sound. And children plump, and tender to eat, She lures with magic gingerbread sweet. On evil bent, With fell intent, She lures the children, poor little things, In the oven hot, She pops the lot. She shuts the door down, Until they're done brown--all those gingerbread children. "Oh, my soul!" the poor woman shrieked. "Come! We must lose no time: Haensel and Gretel may be baked to cinders by this time," and out she ran, screaming, and followed by the father, to look for those poor children. ACT II