One day the little Witch fancied a ride into town. She wanted to have a look at the weekly market there.
Abraxas was delighted. “Splendid!” he cried. “I’ll come too. It’s lonely here at home in the wood, nothing but lots of trees and hardly any people. At the market in the town it’s just the opposite.”
However, they couldn’t very well ride the broomstick right into the market-place; that would have caused quite a stir among the people. They would probably have had the police after them too. So they hid the broomstick in a cornfield just outside the town and went in on foot.
In the market-place, housewives, maidservants, peasant women and cooks were already crowding round the stalls. Shrill-voiced gardeners’ wives were shouting the praises of their vegetables. “Buy my fine apples and pears!” cried the greengrocers over and over again. The fishwives wanted to sell their salt herrings, the sausage seller wanted to sell his hot frankfurters, the potter had his earthenware jugs and dishes spread out for sale on a pile of straw. Here was a man shouting, “Pickled cabbage! Pickled cabbage!” There was a cry of “Watermelons, pumpkins – here you are – watermelons, pumpkins!”
The loudest voice of all belonged to Jacob Cheapjack. He stood on the top step to the well in the marketplace, hitting his tray with a hammer and shouting at the top of his voice.
“Come buy, good people, come buy! Bargains here today! Prices cut today. I’m giving everything away half-price! String, snuff, braces! Razor blades, toothbrushes, hairclips! Kettle-holders, boot polish, garlic sauce! Walk up, ladies and gentlemen. Come buy, come buy! Jacob Cheapjack here!”
The little Witch loved all the noise and bustle. She let herself drift to and fro with the crowd. She tasted the pears here and the pickled cabbage there. She spent two pence on a firework from Jacob Cheapjack, and he threw in free a glass ring for her finger.
“Thank you very much,” said the little Witch.
“Much obliged! – Walk up, ladies and gentlemen! Come buy, come buy! Jacob Cheapjack here!”
Right at the back of the market, in the furthest corner, a pale little girl was standing with a basket of paper flowers, sad and quiet. The people hurried by without noticing her. No one bought anything from the shy little girl.
“Suppose you did a little something for her?” Abraxas suggested. “I feel very sorry for the poor little child.”
The little Witch made her way through the crowd.
“Can’t you sell your flowers?” she asked the little girl.
“Who wants to buy paper flowers in the middle of summer?” said the girl. “Mother will cry again. If I don’t bring any money home in the evening she can’t buy us bread. I’ve got seven brothers and sisters, and Father died last winter. So now we make these paper flowers – but no one ever wants to buy them.”
The little Witch had been listening to the girl sympathetically. For a moment she wondered how to help her. Then she had an idea.
“People don’t want to buy your flowers?” she said. “I can’t understand it. They smell so sweet!”
The little girl looked up doubtfully.
“Smell? How could paper flowers have a smell?”
“Indeed they have,” the little Witch assured her earnestly. “They smell much sweeter than real flowers. Can’t you smell them?”
The paper flowers really did smell sweet. The little flower seller was not the only one to notice it.
All over the market-place people began to sniff. “What’s that smell?” they asked each other. “Impossible! Paper flowers, did you say? Are they for sale? I must get some at once. I wonder if they’re very expensive.”
Everyone who had legs and a nose hurried to the corner where the little girl stood. The housewives came running, the servant girls, the peasant women, the cooks, everyone. The fishwives left their salt herrings to look after themselves, the sausage seller left his stove, the gardeners’ wives left their vegetables. They all crowded round the girl with the paper flowers, eager to buy.
Even Jacob Cheapjack ran up with his tray. He had arrived last of all, so he stood on tiptoe and made a trumpet of his hands. “Hey, there!” he called over the heads of the crowd. “Can you hear me, flower girl? Jacob Cheapjack here! Just hand me a few of those flowers – well, one, at least. Can you hear me? At least one!”
“No going out of turn! Not even for Jacob Cheapjack!” cried the people standing nearest the little girl. “Sell the flowers in the right order.” What a good thing we’re in front, they thought. The supply can’t hold out long, and all the people who came later will be left empty-handed.
The little girl went on and on selling. But the flowers in her basket never came to an end. There was enough for everyone who wanted to buy, even Jacob Cheapjack.
“The flowers aren’t sold out – how’s that?” asked the people in surprise, putting their heads together. But the flower girl herself didn’t know. Only the little Witch could have told them. However, she and Abraxas had long since slipped away. They had already left the town houses behind, and soon they would reach the cornfield where the broomstick lay hidden.
The little Witch was still thinking about the flower girl. She smiled to herself. Then the raven nudged her gently with his beak. He pointed out a black cloud hurrying past overhead. It would not have been suspicious but for a broomstick jutting out of the cloud.
“Look at that!” said Abraxas. “Aunt Rumpumpel! I suppose the monster has been spying on you.”
“She spoils everything!” the little Witch grumbled.
“Well, never mind,” said the raven. “You’ve nothing to hide from her – least of all what you did to-day.”