ling,” and if not, that the noon-witch had most undoubtedly taken her under her power. By this utterance all the actions of the girl were explained and excused, but as a consequence the villagers either avoided or feared her and only a few souls truly loved her. Whoever thought to anger her had only to say “Bewitched Bára!” But he who thought that this particular nickname offended her worse than any other was mistaken.
To be sure she had heard tales of noon-witches, evening specters, of the water-man, the fire-glow man who lives in the forest, and about the will-o’-the-wisps, the devil and ghosts. She had heard of all of these among the children, but she feared none of them. While she. was still small her father used to take her out with him to the pasture and there she played the whole livelong day with her dog, Lišaj, who, next to her father, was her dearest playmate. Her father wasted few words on her, but sat and carved wooden shoes, raising his eyes at times to look at the herd, and if it were not all together, he would send Lišaj to return the cow or heifer, which the dog would always do, according to orders. When necessary, he himself would get up and make several circuits of the herd. When Bára was larger she accompanied Lišaj on his rounds, and if a cow tried to sniff at her, Lišaj would at once drive it away. As she grew older, in case of need she would often drive the herd out for her father. The cows knew her voice as well as Jacob’s horn. Even the
