~*~There is an old spinster who lives down the road.
Some say she is a witch.
Every Sunday, wearing a large hat rampant with exotic feathers, she stalks her garden.
Hopelessly overgrown and full of prickly weeds, she tiptoes her way through.
In her hand is a large woven basket where she gingerly places her finds.
One day, I asked what she was hunting. For there were no flowers to place in vases, nor herbs to flavor stew to be seen in her posession.
"Why, the wicked snails who put holes in my lovely flowers." She replied as she bent slowly to the ground.
While she placed a large glistening spiraled shell into her container she continued, "They're going to be my lunch; for I can think of nothing more suitable. I have fed them on my flowers, now they shall feed me."
At that, she gave a brief cackle, and leaving me forgotten, slowly made her way inside with her prizes.

To this day I still see her out in her vagabond garden. And sometimes, I can catch the faintest wisps of butter and garlic wafting up from her end of the street.~*~