She awoke, put down her hand to
take up a stocking, and laid hold of a bird. She stared, rubbed her
eyes, stared again, looked about, and could find nothing but the
ortolan feathers. I then ran forward and embraced her, looking as if I
had just come from unearthing turnips. 'Well, I declare,' she said
with a bewildered air, 'I could have sworn that I was knitting just
now, and here I find myself plucking ortolans; and what is more, I
have not the slightest idea where, in all the world, the birds have
come from!' Of course, I looked as innocent as possible; so that the
more she stared and reflected, the less she could make the matter out.
At last, she went on plucking the birds, and when this was done she
stuck them on the spit. When the ortolans were roasted and ready to be
served up, I went into the kitchen, carried them off, and put my
mother's knitting apparatus on the spit. Imagine her surprise when she
beheld her worsted and stockings at the fire, knowing, at the same
time, that four hungry stomachs were waiting for their dinners! At
last, fearing that she was going to ascribe the metamorphosis to some
hallucination of her own, I went up to her, threw my arms round her
neck, told her the whole story, and we both of us enjoyed a hearty
laugh over it."
"Aye, Jack, those were laughing times," said Fritz, sadly.
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