es and poetry--yes, they're like two yards of the
same piece of stuff; they can go and lie down where they like, and one
can brew all their prattle, and have it all the better and cheaper.
You shall have it from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard-full of
poetry in bottles. It makes essences; and that's the best of
it--bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people want of
poetry, in bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief,
on holidays, to smell."

"Why, these are wonderful things that you're telling!" said the
man. "You have poetry in bottles?"

"More than you can require," said the woman. "I suppose you know
the history of 'the Girl who Trod on the Loaf, so that she might not
soil her shoes'? That has been written, and printed too."

"I told that story myself," said the man.

"Yes, then you must know it; and you must know also that the
girl sank into the earth directly, to the Moor-woman, just as Old
Bogey's grandmother was paying her morning visit to inspect the
brewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and asked to have her as a
remembrance of her visit, and got her too; while I received a
present that's of no use to me--a travelling druggist's shop--a
whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grandmother told me where
the cupboard was to be placed, and there it's standing still. Just
look! You've your seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, one of
which is a six-leaved one, and so you will be able to see it."

And really in the midst of the moor lay something like a great
knotted block of alder, and that was the old grandmother's cupboard.
The Moor-woman said that this was always open to her and to every
one in the land, if they only knew where the cupboard stood. It
could be opened either at the front or at the back, and at every
side and corner--a perfect work of art, and yet only an old alder
stump in appearance. The poets of all lands, and especially those of
our own country, had been arranged here; the spirit of them had been
extracted, refined, criticised and renovated, and then stored up in
bottles. With what may be called great aptitude, if it was not
genius the grandmother had taken as it were the flavor of this and
of that poet, and had added a little devilry, and then corked up the
bottles for use during all future times.

"Pray let me see," said the man.

"Yes, but there are more important things to hear," replied the
Moor-woman.

"But now we are at the cupboard!"