Page:The Sick-A-Bed Lady.djvu/129

 There were no magic meanings in Sam's words. Sam, for instance, could throw as many as a hundred stones into the water, yet when he got through he just lay down in the sand and groaned, "Oh, how tired I am! Oh, how tired I am!" But Ladykin, after she'd thrown only two stones—one that hit the beach, and one that hit you—would stand right up and declare that her arm was "be-witched." Tired? No, not a bit of it, but "be-witched!" Had n't she seen, had n't you seen, had n't every body seen that perfectly awful sea-witch's head that popped out of the wave just after she had thrown her first stone? Oh, indeed, and it was n't the first time either that she had been so frightened! Once when she was sitting on the sand counting sea-shells, had n't the Witch swooped right out of the water and grabbed her legs? So, now if you wanted to break the cruel spell, save Ladykin's life, marry Ladykin, and live in a solid turquoise palace—where all the walls were papered with foreign postage-stamps, and no duplicates—you, not Sam, but you, you, chosen of all the world, must go down to the little harbor between the two highest, reariest rocks and stick a spiked stick through every wave that came in. There was no other way! Now you, yourself, might possibly have invented the witch, but you never, never would have thought of harpooning the waves and falling in and {hws|drown|drowning}}