and smiled as if to say she could leave him with a quiet mind since he had got brains enough now to look after himself—and then she died.
So down he sat and the more he thought about it the badder he felt. He minded how she'd nursed him when he was a tiddy brat, and helped him with his lessons, and cooked his dinners, and mended his clouts, and bore with his foolishness; and he felt sorrier and sorrier, while he began to sob and greet.
"Oh, mother, mother!" says he, "who'll take care of me now! Thou shouldn't have left me alone, for I liked thee better than everything!"
And as he said that, he thought of the words of the wise woman. "Hi, yi!" says he, "must I take mother's heart to her?"
"No! I can't do that," says he. "What'll I do! what'll I do to get that pottle of brains, now I'm alone in the world?" So he thought and thought and thought, and next day he went and borrowed a sack, and bundled his mother in, and carried it on his shoulder up to the wise woman's cottage.
"Gode'en, missis," says he, "I reckon I've fetched thee the right thing this time, surely," and he plumped the sack down kerflap! in the doorsill.
"Maybe," says the wise woman, "but read me this, now, what's yellow and shining but isn't gold?"
And he scratched his head, and thought and thought but he couldn't tell.
"Thou'st not hit the right thing, my lad," says she. "I doubt thou'rt a bigger fool than I thought!" and shut the door in his face.
