A witch astride her besom is flying wide and high, her cape flaps all about her as she travels through the sky. Her hair is black as coal dust, she peers through one good eye, as people far below her look up, stupefied.
The final day of February, beneath a wintery sky, we find the local poacher catching rabbits on the fly. He is no big brave soldier just needs some food to eat before the world gets colder, a stew will be a treat.
The witch sees him beneath her, his gun slung o’er his arm, she takes her eye out, polishes, puts it back, still warm. With clarity of vision she sees a running hare close enough for him to shoot, she shouts out, ‘Run! Beware!’
The poacher takes exception ‘My supper’ he exclaims, ‘You’ve done me out of meat tonight, ‘for shame, old witch, for shame.’ ‘Don’t you shame me, soldier,’ the witch forthright declaims, ‘That hare is running wild and free ’tis you should feel the shame.’